


A Moment In Time

by Beepun



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Martin Blackwood & Melanie King - Freeform, Panic Attack, Referenced Child Neglect, References to Depression, implied self harm, scottish cabin fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22828594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beepun/pseuds/Beepun
Summary: The bus hits a pothole and his face smacks unceremoniously against the icy glass with a rather harsh thunk. Ah, but of course he’d make a fool of himself in just observing. He looks around the mostly empty bus rather sheepishly, making eye contact with a woman who had been startled by the noise. She offers him a sympathetic smile and then returns her eyes to the small book in her lap.The burning sense of embarrassment is a rather cruel reminder that he is alive, alive and out of The Lonely. He can feel yes, but a small human and whiny part of his mind asks, but at what cost? And it’s silly, Martin thinks, to worry so much about something so small. It’s nice, too.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 39
Kudos: 231





	1. It Starts

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic about escaping The Lonely and getting out of London, but with extra love and support from friends. Because that's what Martin Blackwood deserves.

Martin can’t remember leaving The Lonely. 

One moment he was there, surrounded by nothing but fog tinged with sea salt and cold biting water that lapped at his waist. Between him and the world, there was nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe it could have been peaceful, not worrying about anyone or anything. It wasn’t that he craved the Nothingness, but being there within Nothing was simply...passively acceptable. 

Nothing had been muffled. Nothing had been a heaviness permeating into every limb, making a home in the space between his joints and within his bones. It was devastating, that loneliness. It wasn’t being invisible in front of his mother or his so-called friends, it wasn’t wasted efforts at work. It wasn’t his worry and care being rejected again and again, nor anything like being looked down upon for the simple act of _trying_. The Loneliness claimed him, cut every tie he had to Anything at all. His pain, his sorrow, his joys, all meant nothing and had been in vain there in The Lonely. It had been existing without meaning anything at all, without another soul knowing he was alive.

The Loneliness placed him in the center of Nothing, unspooling his reality and sense of self until there was nothing. What was the point of all that pain, of all that effort? It was easier to run away, to be safe with an ocean separating him from everyone who ever bothered to look away from him. Yes, worse than being invisible were the moments he had been _seen_ by someone, and they decided to look away. They saw him and deemed him unworthy. Yes, The Lonely hurt in a numb aching way, but it was his hurt. It wasn’t the world hurting him, shutting him out anymore. 

It was nice to finally say, _Now I get to reject you_ and mean it. 

Except he didn’t mean it, did he? 

Jon is soaked through, looking like a wet cat all grumpy and irritated. His eyes shift nervously as he pulls Martin along. 

His eyes fall down to their linked hands, and the sight of _something_ is enough to bring stinging tears to his eyes. The smell of the saltwater hits him like a train, and the Nothingness he became threatens to overwhelm him. But Jon keeps moving, keeps pulling him along. The spot where they’ve connected burns and is heavy and some part of Martin desperately wants to let go. Some part wants to demand the aching comfort of The Lonely. Being out of it hurt, being here hurt, simply _being_ , seen and unseen all at once was too much and he’d rather deal with it alone like Peter had meant for him to be. 

“Why?” He asks desperately, more of a whispered demand. It sounds like a whine, an ugly thing that tears itself from someplace in his chest. He feels guilty instantly as if Jon hadn’t saved his life while risking his own. And then he wants to demand again, _why?_ Why had Jon risked so much for Martin of all people? It’s such a pathetic thought, but Jon keeps going. Jon keeps pulling him forward. 

“Let’s keep moving, Martin.” His voice is tired, his hand gives Martin a squeeze and drags him along. It’s warm, it’s heavy and warm and Martin can’t tear his eyes away from the scarred hand holding his cold clammy one. Realistically, Jon’s hand isn’t heavy. It’s smaller than Martins and slimmer. But it’s heavy. Something is heavy, pinning him into reality with such a weight that being alive almost feels suffocating. Being alive feels like the budding warmth between their hands. He wants to hold onto Jon’s hand as long as possible. 

Some distant part of his mind is singing, _it’s Jon’s hand_. But of course, it's Jon. Jon who shook hands with an avatar of destruction, who went into the Buried, all exhaustion and bones and last remaining shadows of humanity and returned with Daisy or not at all. Jon who heard his statement and offered him a place to be safe. Jon, who said he missed him. 

Certainly, Jon might not have been _nice_ , all those months ago when all Martin worried about was finding proof of the supernatural and making himself as useful as his resume led people to believe he should be. Jon might not have been nice about the tea or his interruptions, or pleasant in general, more irritation than anything else, but he had always been _kind_. And somewhere from the start of everything and the moment he pleaded to be seen in The Lonely, Jon was more human in his kindness and his recklessness and his bravery than Martin could have ever hoped to understand. 

Martin had really loved him, all those months ago. Watching him walk in front of him, the smaller man carries the world on his shoulders with a sort of effortless dignity. Carries pain and hope and warmth despite everything. Perhaps because of everything. His hair is tied back in a sloppy ponytail, black and silver hair pooling at the base of his neck. His pace is quick, Martin follows along obediently. The warmth of his hand seeps into Martin’s, and it made him feel as though something in him is thawing. The blurry sense of himself is coming back into focus. Slowly, but surely, made all the easier with Jon in his sight. 

“Thank you,” He says, instead of an apology or a demand or the _I still love you_ threatening to push from his chest like a waterfall, threatening to drown him if he doesn’t release it into the freezing London streets. Martin isn’t sure if the streets are actually cold, or if its the effects of The Lonely still lingering. But he keeps his lips shut and follows Jon. 

Right now, he thinks he’d follow Jon just about anywhere. 

* * *

Turns out anywhere is just west of the center of London. The city is busier than it should be, a sort of tension thrums about like the buzz of a thousand bees in a shaken up hive. It scares Martin, but he trusts Jon as he weaves them through the crowded city streets. It feels as though one wrong move, one accidental cough, and the whole city would crash in on itself. 

Jon leads him to an older building. It’s got a bit of rustic charm to it that Martin would enjoy any other day, but it leaves him feeling confused for now. He doesn’t get another moment to appreciate it before Jon charges forward. The sounds of the street are muffled inside, becoming a distant chatter as they follow the stairs up two floors and head to the end of the hall. Once there, Jon raises a bony knuckle. Three sharp knocks to the door, and it’s as though a spell has broken over Jon.

“Oh, uh...” He says, and Martin is confused because he was sure Jon would be going to his own flat. Instead, he looks a bit horrified and nervous and Martin very badly wants to pull him out of the building and put him somewhere safe. 

Before he can move, the door creaks open and there, standing to her full height, is Georgie Barker. Jon makes a noise that’s something between a wheeze and a laugh, if a laugh could sound so deflated and crushed. Martin very much wants to disappear. 

“Hello, Georgina.” Jon’s voice sounds made up of nerves and exhaustion, and Georgie’s eyes flick between the two of them. She doesn’t look happy in the slightest. 

“What. Are you doing here?” She demands, voice low as she crosses her arms. 

“I don’t know,” Jon stammers, and brings his hands together to wring them anxiously. 

Just like that, the words between Georgie and Jon lose meaning. There’s a static in the air that burrows into his skin, fast as a fading star across the night sky. The color of the hall washes out, grey and soft and _safe_ as nothing else could ever promise to be. Something is stuck in his throat, a cry or a yell, but it’s snug there where it can’t escape. The Lonely is safe as always, it’s such a shame to leave such a comfortable ache. Such a freezing fog gently holding his heart in it’s grasp.

_“-tin. Martin!”_ Hands press against his cheeks and pull him down. His eyes focus on a broken face, Jon’s eyes search desperately and Martin feels the world close up around him demanding to be felt again. Bright, burning, overwhelmingly _there._ _Oh_. 

“Hello, Jon.” He says, unsure of what to do. He catches Georgie's gaze and snaps his eyes back to Jon. Jon’s got worried eyes on him, searching, _searching_ him in a way that leaves him feeling raw and vulnerable. Something ugly rears up in him, one of the only things left from his mother. Something that makes the pity and concern of these two strangers sting like a blade cutting into already wounded flesh, and all Martin can do is bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. A voice that sounds an awful lot like his mother calls it _pathetic_. 

“Please, _please_ , Georgie just for now. I can’t-He-I- Georgie, _please_.” Jon looks between Martin and Georgie as though he’s afraid to take his eyes off Martin for long. His hands go from his face to his shoulders, then they curl into the fabric on his chest as though to serve as an anchor, keep his feelings from floating off. How different is The Lonely to The Vast? It’s all endless, full of nothing but terror at never seeing an end, the terror of meeting an end. 

“Is that Jon?” Another voice breaks through the tension. Martin looks up, surprises himself in doing so, what had he been doing? And sees Melanie King with dark glasses and a cane in her hands. 

_“What, you’re going to gouge your eyes out or something?”_

If the Lonely made every breath feel impossible to draw, then the Vast must certainly be the inability to push out a breath, and Martin is vaguely aware that someone in this hall is making a ruckus. There’s a sound that’s a broken sob pieced together with a shattered laugh. Someone is laughing and they can’t breathe, and Martin very much wants to sit them down and tell them to calm down. 

There are two sets of arms on him and suddenly Martin is being rushed into a living space that smells like a vanilla candle landed on a cat. The air keeps pushing at his lungs and they refuse to take it in, and there’s a voice begging him to be okay _I need you to be okay, please be okay Martin_ but the babble goes right over his head. Instead, he focuses on the burnt hand in his again, smooth and rough flesh. He sits himself down, but he’s already been placed on a well-worn sofa. 

_Five things you can see._ Jon. Melanie. Her dark glasses. A coffee table. A Laptop. _Four things you can touch_. Jon's hands. He focuses on the feeling of Jon squeezing his hand in both of his, the way his brows are furrowed with worry, he can feel the sofa beneath him. He knows the sweater he’s wearing is soft. Martin brings his free hand to stroke the sofa and finds that it’s a bit scratchy. 

He doesn't need to finish the mantra as he takes a big gulp of air and steadies his breath. The burn of embarrassment flashing across his skin instantly, starting at his toes and leaving him light head. “I’m so sorry.” He says instead. 

“Martin-”

“Martin!” Melanie cuts Jon off and moves towards him. They hadn’t been friends. Martin hadn’t wanted her working in the Archives and instead of telling her why he was rude and dismissive. Had the Lonely had him even then? Or had he always been so cold and hard? Maybe there was no cut off to the person he was and the person The Lonely always had a hold on. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated, hands moving to clutch his knees as he lowered his head. He tries to focus on his breath, three sets of eyes far too many and far too soon. 

“Jon.” Georgie’s voice is soft, but there’s a warning. Next to him, Jon shifts off the sofa and moves away. For a moment, Martin fears he’ll end up back in the Lonely, but instead he feels soft fleece wrap around his shoulders. Looking up he sees Jon’s brought him a blanket, and it’s almost funny that he acts as though the place is his. Even if it’s not, he must know it well enough. 

“I’m sorry,” He says again, because he is. Because there’s nothing else to say. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, you’re fine, you’re fine, I promise,” Jon speaks carefully, a hand coming up to his shoulder. “You-Um, what- what was that?”

“Fucking Christ Jon, never seen a panic attack before have you?” Melanie pushes forward, her knees gently tap the sofa before she sits herself down beside Martin. “Not your first time dealing with one, huh big guy?”

“...No…” Somehow, he didn’t expect Melanie to be like this. The clear lack of disinterest or hatred or disdain makes something in Martin want to cry again. 

“Well, if you’re alright...Jon?” Georgie turns to Jon with a pointed look, and for his part, Jon actually looks miserable to follow her out of the living room. They go off to a room down the hall. Despite the click of the door signaling it’s closed, the muffled sound of voices carries an argument with them. 

“Hm,” Melanie says, and Martin mumbles another apology that she speaks over. “Do you want some tea?”

“Y-Yes, yeah that, thank you.” He pushes the words out and they sound empty. Wrong, as though his voice belonged to something less than human. Maybe, just maybe, The Lonely wasn’t a place around him, maybe it had always existed nestled between the spaces of his heart. 

“I actually can’t make tea on my own yet. Georgie’s good at not coddling me, but I do remember Jon saying you were the best at tea.” Melanie glanced in his direction with a pointed smile. “Would you be up for that?” 

“I-Okay, okay.” A simple task. Something he was good at. Standing on shaky feet, he makes his way into the kitchen, Melanie pointing out where they keep the tea and Martin starts the electric kettle. It's easy to fall into the motion, a simple silent ritual of his own that grounds him in the moment. It is odd. 

Finishing tidying up, he places a cup on the table in front of Melanie, then moves to sit just across from her. They hadn’t been friends all that time ago. But she’d sounded happy to hear Jon. She didn’t carry anger in her the way she did before, ready to go off at any moment. 

“You look well.” He says, clamping his mouth shut once he realized it’d been out loud. Melanie offers a smile and shrugs, hand moving slowly to find the cup and Martin pushes it in her path. She gives a noise of approval before moving it to her lips and taking a sip. 

“Oh, oh I see. Now, this makes sense.” She looks well. Martin knows they weren’t friends. He had been rude to her, mistrustful of her intentions and he openly disliked her behavior towards Jon. And then he’d gone and joined Peter Lukas. 

Martin looks at Melanie and sees Tim Stoker and Sasha James. His co-workers, the closest thing to friends he had in a long while. It’s silly to think that had they all just blinded themselves, they’d be alive and well. But how were they supposed to know? 

“What's it like, being free?” What’s like, being braver than the rest. _Brave enough to tell an entity to fuck off and claim her life back for her own_ , Martin thinks. There’s exhaustion seeping it’s way into his voice, Martin wishes he could wash it away and be light again. His bones are heavy in a way he thought he’d been used to, but has changed so drastically.

“Uh, I got a really, really, really good therapist. Georgie’s been wonderful too. I- well- It’s good. Life outside the Institute is good. There’s, there’s a whole world and a whole different life out here, you know?” 

She takes another sip of her tea and Martin thinks over her words. Tim had tried to get away, but he’d gotten sick instead. Distance hadn’t been enough to sever the bond between a god and it’s avatar, or whatever the little ones like Martin and Tim and all the assistants had been. Of course not, Jon continued to gather statements and do research all over the globe. But how could they have all known that too? Martin sighs and wraps his hands around the warm mug. It’s good for thawing out the lingering chill in his fingers. 

“That’s good, you...Forgive me if I’m out of line, but you certainly deserve your hard-earned happiness.” 

“Oh-uh…” She takes another sip and the silence stretches between them like physical distance. So much so that Martin starts eyeing the door. He could walk out right now. A part of his mind keeps reminding him that he doesn’t know Melanie, not as Jon knows her. They weren’t friends, they were hardly co-workers. But they were here now and the tension was gone from her shoulders. She looked younger now, somehow. 

“You’re different than you were, back then, I mean.” Her voice is pensive and Martin thinks they’re probably having the same thoughts. “I always thought you needed to calm down, but Jon told Daisy that you were, apparently, “a kind man” and Basira and I and Daisy well, we wanted to know who that Martin was because...well..” 

She waved her hand around as if to finish the thought, and Martin made a small noise of acknowledgment. It was odd to think that he existed at all outside of the walls Peter kept him in. That there were conversations about him...at all. The thought seems to pin him in place, that despite his absence he simply continued to exist in the minds of his co-workers. It’s an odd, grounding thought.

“What was it like, working with Peter?” Martin looks to her again, though her face is set in stone staring ahead at something that’s not there. Martin’s plan took Tim’s life and Daisy was only back because Jon was incredible like that. Peter disappeared two employees because...because he could. Because Martin needed a warning and because people needed to be alone. He knew it wasn’t meant to be an accusation, maybe a form of closure for Melanie. To let her heal from all sides with questions answered. 

“It was terrifying.” Ice drips from every word, they land hollow around him and he feels the sting of tears in his eyes. “I- I don't. It's hard to recognize yourself after all that time. I wanted so badly to- to be alone and to not be by myself. I think I played my part a bit too well, actually. Look at where it’s gotten me,” He lets out a humorless laugh and has to swallow back a sob. “I feel…”

_I thought you might be -_

“Lost…” She finishes off for him, her voice far away in a painful place. Martin wishes he could sink his fingers into her like hooks and pull her back, pull her away from the bad place because she’s earned her spot here, under the sun and in Georgie’s flat. “Sorry, curiosity killed the cat, I guess.” 

“Well, they say satisfaction brings it back, I hear.” They both drink their tea in silence. From across the apartment, Jon and Georgie’s voices go back and forth. At times louder, at times hushed. Martin knows they can’t stay here. Martin’s not sure if Jon will want him around. He’s on the run from the police and Elias and every avatar out there. Meanwhile, Martin feels like a brand new lamb still trying out its legs for the first time. 

“I…” Melanie sighs and her shoulders hunch over. “That place is messed up, Martin. It messed us all up. Where does it end and where do we start, right?.” 

“Yes, an age-old question.” He hates how small he sounds. His drink is getting colder. “I wish there was an easy way to get rid of the lo-Oh god,” Martin bites his lip and bows his head, dread kicking in. “Not that, absolutely not that your decision was easy one, my god that was so insensitive-”

“Like hell, it wasn’t. I mean it was, a hard choice I guess. Only until it wasn’t. I got out, Martin. So, I think we can both _see_ -see what I did there- that I’m the lucky one in all this. I got out.”

She seems exhausted suddenly. Martin remembers how Jon had come to him then, the absolute horror of realizing what he’d have to do to be free of The Beholding’s grasp. The desperation to take that chance, to have a reason to be so brave. Melanie had the strength to go through it. The demon she hadn’t known was friendlier than the God that tried to claim her. Martin can admit he admires her now. He would like to think that if maybe if they’d met in better circumstances, they could have been friends. 

Then, Melanie's hand is in his face, far too close and far too fast for Martin to do anything other than jump back with a surprised yelp. She didn’t hit him, but his mind supplies the sting of a hand hitting cheek, the ghost of a hurt he buried long ago. For her part, Melanie doesn’t retract her hand or offer an apology. While her hand is in front of him, palm upturned, her face looks forward away from him. She looks deep in thought and then bounces her hand. 

Martin hesitates as he takes it. Her lithe fingers are warm against his own, but there’s something more there. Something that burns deeper than skin and bone, right to the core of his very being. He gasps, her fingers tighten around his hand almost cruelty as he tries to collect himself.

“How’s that for a fuck off to The Lonely, eh? Not as dramatic, I’ll give you that, but refusing to let go? I-I mean, if it wants you that bad, it’s going to have to get through all of us. Or at least Jon, for sure. And you know how stubborn he is.”

Martin wants to yank his hand away. It’s safer to be unknown, to be forgotten, to have the ideas of the world and of oneself washed away by the never-ending tide. If severing his ties to everyone had been painful, it was nothing compared to the careful agonizing stitching of himself into the reality of another person. To be known and accepted, where his heart had only known rejection, it’s a wound that healed wrong, but it healed a bit nonetheless. 

Instead of letting go, Martin squeezes her hand back. It’s nothing as bloody or obvious as the rejection of The Beholding, but he feels _powerful_ for just a moment. Looking up to Melanie, he can see that she’s smiling at him. She’s got a determined look on her face, well earned after coming out on top of a fear entity. He can feel himself returning the grin, cheeks pulling up as a noise breaks through. 

It’s an odd thing, finding emotion after so long of suppressing every little instinct. In an attempt to not feel alone, accepting loneliness and nothingness served as oddly appropriate forms of cauterizing. And yet here he was, holding onto an old co-workers hand like a lifeline, smiling and crying all at once. It was like drowning, all at once in a world of color and tough and life. 

“Thank you,” He said, wiping away the tears with a free hand. 

“Sure thing,” She responded, punctuating the words with a nod. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin have a moment to rest in Georgie's apartment. Martin and Georgie have a chat.

There’s silence in the flat, but Martin hadn’t really expected otherwise. Rain hits against the windows, a silent hum keeping him company as he wanders room to room. Even the sound of the kettle whistling away is muted, it’s piercing shriek muffled by the tense air around him. Mrs. Marlow, the live-in nurse, offers him a pained smile as she takes over tidying the rooms, freeing him up to take over tea. His own smile, he knows, is just as empty and meaningless as his presence here. 

It feels deathly wrong, the way his mother's bright yellow mug clanks against the counter. Oolong, two sugars, no cream. It was once her favorite. She’d drink it all without complaint even when he was the one making it. Last time he brought it to her, she’d spilled it at his feet and refused to look at him. 

Today, she doesn’t have the energy to throw away the mug or spill the tea or even to look at Martin. Her mousy brown hair is tied into a loose ponytail that pools at the base of her neck. Martin wants to reach out and touch her, but every hand on her shoulder is met with disgust. Her rejection hurt more than he wanted to admit, especially now. 

“I brought tea and biscuits, Mum.” Silence. The hum of the rain drowns out his voice, almost sucks it up out of his mouth as though his words should drop into a void. “I...Mrs. Marlow is going to keep you company, isn’t that nice?”

The cup of tea clanking on her bedside table is far too loud again, an offending noise that draws him far too much into the reality of his mother's room. She does not look at him. 

“I’ve got another job interview today, it’s some fancy institute this time, uh…”

Once upon a time, she’d offer a rude remark at least. She’d once said he was too stupid to work in a place like that, and Martin had cried later. He’d convinced himself that she only meant to point out his lack of qualifications, maybe she was even worried for him? But now there was only silence. A ghost of a woman who once upon a time smiled at him with dazzling teeth, replaced by someone who pretended every word he spoke and every little thing he did simply did not exist.

“Okay...um. W-Well, I’ve got to get going. I’ll bring back some food later, alri-”

“Mrs. Marlow? I could use a drink right about now.” 

There wasn’t even malice in her voice. There wasn’t a sharp urge to hurt him like before, like all the times she’d rejected his attempt at an olive branch. It was simply an exhausted request, as though he wasn’t worth hurting anymore. It didn’t feel like he was being ignored or overlooked. It felt...as though he simply stopped existing. 

“Right.” It was rather cold. “Bye.” 

He left the room, shutting the heavy door behind him with a gentle click. He wasn’t even worth hating anymore. The hallway of his mother's flat is white, cloudy, and oddly cold. Mrs. Marlow is gone.

“It’s quite alright, Martin. No one can blame you for trying.” Looking up, Martin meets his exact image. Older, yet less worn out. He’s got scruff and laughter lines and his hair has lost it’s shine, but he is full of life. ‘ _If you ever do want to know exactly what your father looked like… All you have to do is look in a mirror._ ’ 

“Stop it.” The words are out of his mouth before he can think, but the man just takes a step closer. 

“Haven’t you done enough?” The face is his, but the voice that breaks through is patronizing and cold and empty. “She’s already dead you know, so what's the point of holding onto her? Let her go...let all of this go, Martin. Let. Go.”

Peter Lukas stares back at him. The fog surrounds them both, greedily spirling around his limbs, pulling him closer and further and away. The rain thunders outside, pelting the glass with enough force to break. 

“Let him go!” He snarls, his scream an echo as Martin wakes with a cry. Something is digging into his arm, sharp and painful. “M-Martin! Martin!” 

Martin snaps his attention to see Jon, eyes wide with a sickly glow. It’s Jon’s hands around his bicep, digging into his skin as though he can physically anchor Martin down. “You’re alright, you’re fine, Martin. Look at me, you’re fine, you’re fine.” 

Jon’s hands leave his arm to grab at his face. In his sleep shock state, all Martin can do is look at him, bewildered and terrified. Had Jon been compelling the Lonely? Could it take him even in dreams? 

Martin stares at Jon until his eyes begin to water and the image of his face blurs. The flat does not smell of medicine and tea but of cat and take out. There’s a familiarity to it that Martin doesn’t expect. 

“Um..” Martin manages, and Jon seems to collapse into himself with relief. The small ‘oh thank god’ certainly doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“I just- I was. I went to um. To feed The Admiral and when I came back you…” Here, Jon hesitates, as if terrified of saying anything that could undo Martin's already fragile grasp on his existence outside The Lonely. “You were just...An outline. I-I could - could see right through you.” 

_It terrified me_. Martin could almost hear the words in the way Jon avoided looking at him, the way his shoulders raised to his ears and he made himself smaller. 

“Sorry, Jon.” It’s surprising to hear the echo attached to his own words, so much so that he almost shakes himself. That’s him? That’s what he sounds like? He tries again, an attempt to steady and ground himself. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m here, right?” 

“Y-Yeah…” 

A short silence stretches between them. Martin looks around, doesn’t see Melanie or Georgie anywhere. Can’t hear them no matter how much he focuses. 

“Uh- um, what, if you don’t mind my asking...what?” There’s such a heavy concern to Jon’s words, no supernatural power to pull at Martin's mind. Just concern. Just Jon. 

The dream is there, present in his mind as a memory rather than anything cruel his mind could try to offer up. His cold mother, his image that is more his father than himself. Peter Lukas. Martin wants to curl up and run all at once, away from London and any possibility that Peter could find him. Could drag him back to that frozen shore. 

Martin feels all at once that he is spilling outside himself, skirting the edges of what it means to be Martin Blackwood. Jon’s hands are still on his face, and instead of trying to force himself into the outline of his body, he focuses on the coolness of Jon’s hands. How they’re still somehow warmer than him, how they seem to exist regardless of the world's will.

“It was-” Martin clears his throat, surprised again by how empty his voice sounds. He licks his lips and tries again, putting himself into his words and demanding to be here. To be heard, if at least by Jon and all his curiosity. To be real if only for a moment. “It was...My mother. And her nurse. You know it's funny, I don’t think my mum was ever mean to anyone the- the way she was to me. Um...And...I saw my father. Happier than I- than me. I think he would be, you know? Without me. Maybe that’s why he- A-anyways….Peter was...was there. He. He wanted me to…”

To go back to The Lonely. Martin was certain it wasn’t his patron, so maybe it was simply unwilling to release its meal. Maybe it wanted to remind him of why he had always been meant for it. Focusing back on Jon’s face, he looks horribly determined. He drops his hands from Martin’s face and grabs Martin's hand. 

“You are here and you are as safe. I’m going to make tea.” With that, he lets Martin go and stands. Martin focuses on a spot on the table and thinks about his mother. About how little and alone she looked in that bed. No warmth in her apartment, in her heart, not even for her only son. Maybe she, like him, could have made a safe home within the writhing shrouds of Peter’s patron. He thinks that maybe if he had a different body, she would have loved him. If he didn’t look like his father, then maybe she could have accepted his help. But Martin likes his looks, he liked being big and friendly. Did his father wear his face in the same way Martin tries to? 

“Here.” Jon drops The Admiral into Martin’s lap without warning or ceremony. The cat immediately attempts to escape, only for Jon to capture it and drop it back into his lap. “Oh no, you’re going to stay right there! And Martin is going to stay too, right?” 

There’s an edge to his voice, not a command, but a plea. Silent and hidden and there just for him. Martin gives the cat a pet and scratches behind his ears. 

“Yes, Martin...will.” He says, framing each word carefully.

“Good.” Jon nods, there’s a little pleased smile on his face as he returns to the kettle. It’s nothing like having his mother turn her back to him. She disappears from his mind like fog lifting after the sun begins to shine. Jon stays. He’s slender and more bone than body, but he stands firm even in the simple act of making tea. 

That is until he reaches for the mug with his burnt hand and drops it with a loud clunk onto the counter. “Shit” 

Martin quickly rises to his feet and crosses the small space to Jon. “Here, let me help-”

“No, Martin, _damnit,_ ” Jon puts his hands on Martin’s arm again to hold him back. Martin stays easy enough, “Let me just- just let me do this for you, alright?” 

“It’s just tea, Jon. It’s what I’m good at.” Martin tries again, reaching past him only to get his hand pushed down. 

“No, please, just…” There’s something on Jon’s mind that tells him making tea is important. It’s in the way Jon says please, the way his lips pull down into a determined frown. “I’m...exhausted. Martin, quite frankly so. A-And I’m certain you are even more so, given your...exposure...to The Lonely. So just. Just let me do this, yeah?” 

_Oh_. 

“Oh…I mean…” He hadn’t even thought about it. How long ago had they run away from the Institute? “Can’t believe that was...just today? Um, sure. Sure. Thank you, Jon. Sorry.”

With a sigh, he steps back and takes a seat. He can feel Jon’s eyes on him, so he shoots him a smile and tries not to laugh at the absolute absurdity of it all. How had they escaped the Lonely just a few hours ago? It feels absolutely preposterous that one could...could just escape pure terror, the clutches of an Evil God and then get tea. 

“What a day indeed. Here,” Jon places a mug with painted sunflowers in front of him, sitting down just beside him with his own mug. “That’s a Sims special, means I did my best and no, I will not handle any criticism whatsoever.” 

Jon’s voice is serious, his face is earnest. Martin recalls Basira saying that Jon made jokes, and often wondered how he would have missed them. Right now, he feels a little validated. Staring at Jon, he takes a moment to take in his deadpanned and blank face before burying his own face in his hands to muffle a laugh. When he looks back at Jon, he can feel the dopey love-struck grin on his face. The look on Jon’s face is odd, it’s youthful and soft and doesn’t seem real on his sharp tired features. Martin can only think of home as he maps out the little details of that face. 

“Jon-”

“We’re back!” 

The front door bursts open as Georgie and Melanie make their way through. Martin and Jon both startle, Jon splashing just a bit of tea on himself. 

“W-Welcome back, uh, how-how did it uh...how did it go?” Martin stares as Jon wipes his hand on his shirt, and then glances back at Georgie and Melanie. They both hold three bags in both arms and look strangely happy. Whatever moment they shared, it must have been nice. 

Now that Martin thinks about it, however, he realizes he’s slept most of the day away. It’s night outside and they had arrived early at noon. 

“Just out to get supplies! Jon? Get out.” Georgie says simply, and it leaves a bad taste in Martin’s mouth as Jon startles. Melanie waves over to where his general direction.

“C’mon Jon, we got work to do,” She says, “Take Georgie’s bags if you please.” 

Martin stands to help, but Jon stops him with a hand on his arm and a stern look. Something is up, and Martin tries not to let bitterness seep into his heart at realizing he’s been left out. Again. His fault really, having sided with Peter Lukas all those months. Having slept the day away.

“You’ll be fine? You-You’ll stay, yes?” His voice tries to be firm, firm enough to push at the tiny foggy tendrils of The Lonely. 

“Y-Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Good. Good.” And with that he stands, taking the bags from Georgie and following Melanie into another room. That leaves Georgie and Martin in the small kitchen. It makes him want to squirm, when she looks at him it’s an eerily familiar glare that reminds him of disapproving teachers and bosses. He’s not exactly sure who put Georgie Barker in charge, or why anything that’s happened has had to happen, really. Martin feels as though he’s taken a nap and woken up somewhere he shouldn’t be.

“Hello, Martin. Been a while.” Georgie moves to sit where Jon just was, and the sudden proximity makes him feel closed off. Rather claustrophobic. It’s not a comforting presence like Jon or Melanie. “I think.”

That catches his attention. “Wh-What does that mean?” 

Rather than respond, Georgie just looks at him as though she can see right through him. Not the gaze of someone seeing past him, but seeing everything he is. As though the fog that lingers from The Lonely is non-existent. Martin is terrified that she’ll see everything his mother saw. 

“Means you’re different every time I hear about you. Jon goes off about what a sweetheart and what a good person you are, Melanie says you’re good but difficult and gone. And...I am certain we had a conversation? Jon says you...Well he says you weren’t good then. But- But I told him I didn’t want either of you here for long. I think that’s fair, given everything that comes with you all. Melanie wants to- to help, of course. But-But…”

“You want to...To protect her, right?” Martin finishes the thought. She’s right. Martin can’t be sure what’s after Jon. Would Peter or Elias be after them? They were both there when Martin disappeared into The Lonely, so they would know that Jon went in after him. “You’ve...You’ve done enough. For us. For Jon, I think.”

There was a certain frustration with Georgie he had back then, when all he wanted to do was help Jon. His hands were tied, he wasn’t supposed to help anyone or even be speaking with her then. The way she cut Jon out of her life, like it was the easiest thing to do, had sat horribly wrong with him. In another life, he might admire her ability to set boundaries. Now, he just wants this interaction to be over with. 

Georgie just stares at him. Blinks once, then twice. Then she clears her throat and nods. 

“I don't know you, Martin Blackwood. But Melanie...She seems to like you well enough. And Jon trusts you. So. Anyways- Jon has a plan, but it’s vague and he said he actually needs to know as little about it as possible.” 

Martin takes a sip of his tea and nods for her to continue. 

“We went out to get you two supplies for about...a week or so. Clothes, toothbrushes, soap...The basics of long term travel, you know?”

Martin does not know, but he nods anyway. 

“That’s what Jon and Mel are up to right now, readying your packs. Um. Basira, Mel, and I pooled some money together-”

“Oh absolutely not.” Martin feels a flush rush to his face. “W-What? You all just- just! No! No. You’ve done enough, more than enough! I- Jon! He wouldn’t want-”

“Well yes but he doesn’t have a say in this! He- He needs to leave and he’s pretty damn certain about taking you with him. I-I didn’t get many details, but you need to leave too, apparently. It’s not that much money. You’ll be fine for a bit, but you’re going to want to... to be smart about it. Basira...Melanie, they both vouch for you.” 

That’s supposed to mean something. It’s supposed to mean something and Martin can’t figure it out. He wrecks his mind as he mulls over the words until it hits him like a train. 

“I’m...I’m going to take care of him.”

“And...Yourself, of course.” 

“Right...right.” Martin takes another sip of his tea, but it tastes of nothing against his tongue as he tries to focus on the words instead. He’s going to be in charge of keeping valuable information from Jon, from the watcher. Because Jon trusts him, because Basira and Melanie, despite his attempts to distance himself from everyone, still somehow believe in him. They _trust him_ , Martin Blackwood, they trust him with Jon. Or want to believe that they do, at least. 

“So what is the plan?” 

“Well, you’re both welcome to stay a couple of days-”

“I’d rather we don’t do that to you two. I-Tonight should be good enough but?”

“Basira said to get a hotel, she’ll meet with you two and give you some information. I-Jon said the less anyone is in the know, the better?”

Seeing Georgie now, Martin is reminded of his mother again. It’s a distant memory. One where she comes home, not afraid, but exhausted and willing. She wasn’t afraid of her future, she had accepted whatever her condition threw at her. Georgie must be the same way. There’s only so much one person can take and give and live through. Martin looks down at his hands and gives a sigh. 

“You and Melanie...have done so much for Jon. I-I admire her...her strength to leave if I’m honest. And, well, just her strength in general, I suppose. I…” Martin pauses, looking at Georgie to find something to connect with at all. He knows there are people who simply aren’t made for one another. Still, it only hurts a little to try. “I wanted to protect Jon. I wanted him to be happy, regardless of what that meant for me. Because...Well, there’s no happiness for Tim or Sasha anymore. I can’t help them, I hardly help myself. But I won’t put you or Melanie through, well through anything else. We’ll leave tomorrow in the morning. I-Uh, thank you, Georgie. I can see why Jon came to you so often.” 

He tries to put meaning into the words, he knows they sound hollow but at one time in his life, he would have meant them. He knows Georgie or Melanie don’t owe them anything, and despite their trepidation, they still went out of their way to help. It’s more than Martin deserves, it’s more he thought he’d ever get in the way of help. And to do so much in a couple of hours. Looking back to Georgie, she’s got a strange look on her face that makes Martin want to disappear again. Especially when she reaches out. 

He expects her hand to hurt. But it simply rests on his arm as lightly as a butterfly might land on a flower.

“I trust Melanie. And I am trying to trust Jon. They both trust you, so...I suppose you must have a good head on your shoulders. Despite everything.” 

She offers a smile. An olive branch. Martin smiles back. It’s a stiff thing, but she seems to understand more than she’s letting on. 

“In another life...I think we could have been real good friends, you know? Dig at Jon for working too hard?” 

“Demand he goes out for lunch?” 

“Oh definitely.”

“Did you- well...Did you know he pretended to be a skeptic _even when we were being invaded by a worm lady_?”

“Oh, that sounds like him!”

“You know," Martin feels himself hesitate just a bit but decides it's too late to hold back. "If I wasn’t about to go into hiding, I would absolutely love your autograph. Is that something people do? For- Cuz I do like your podcast, I used to listen to it when I worked in the library.”

The smile that blossoms across Georgie's face makes Martin want to cry, if only because it feels as though it's thoroughly directed at _him_. 

* * *

He’s not sure why little things keep threatening to push him overboard. Jon, Melanie, and now Georgie, all they do is offer him a smile and it makes him feel as though every invisible wall he so meticulously put in place is broken down. Maybe its because they do it so recklessly, without concern for where the debris lands. It’s as if they don’t care that he spent so much time learning to love those walls. They never had to learn to be alone, how to enjoy their own company because it was the only thing that couldn’t leave. Of course, The Lonely fed so well on him, he’d been alone for so long. Since before he sent in his resume to the Institute. Since before his mother’s diagnosis. 

None of them cared about that, about how easy he was to forget or leave behind. About how easy he could easily fall into the background. They didn’t give him the chance, pulling him forward as they laughed over take out. Melanie kept reaching out for his hand, said he had ‘soft, good hands’. She bullied Jon until he agreed, and he did through sputtered words. Georgie yelled betrayal when The Admiral refused her affection for the purpose of being on Martin’s lap. And Jon smiled. He smiled like this moment meant the world to him. 

When their dinner of take-out and tea - Martin wanted a chance to defend his title of making good tea, and he did if the empty cups and demand for more were any indication - ended, Georgie and Melanie decided to call it a night.

“The office is an old guest room, so there’s a pretty good bed in there for one of you.” Melanie offers. 

“Of course, thank you. Good night you two.” Jon gives a nod and goes to search through his duffle bag for pajamas. Martin wishes them both a good night as well, sending Melanie off with a quick hug. It feels rather new to hug, it’s been so long since he and Sasha got lunch together or Tim slung an arm around his shoulder. It’s rather nice. 

The door closes behind Georgie and Melanie, leaving Jon and Martin alone in the quiet of the living room. Martin turns to his own duffle bag, notes it’s rather larger than average size and shuffles through it to find some new comfortable clothes. He comes up with a ‘What The Ghost’ shirt and feels a smile tug at his lips. Alright, that’ll do. 

“Uh...Jon? Do you think I could take a quick shower?” 

“Oh uh, yes, down the hall to your left.” 

* * *

Martin knows that Jon doesn’t want him out of his sight. He knows that in the grand scheme of things, a few hours outside of The Lonely are nothing compared to the hellish months he spent readying himself for it. And now he stands under a burning stream of water in Georgie’s too tiny bathroom as if the scalding water will burn away every imperfection he has. It does nothing to pin him down into reality. It just reminds him of the edges of his body that blur and fade, mingling with the inoffensive clouds of steam gathering around the bathroom. 

It’s at that moment that Peter Lukas’ death hits him with the force of thunder cracking the sky open. 

Some large part of Martin, one he’d rather hide and avoid thinking about, is terrified that Peter would find him again. Would toss him readily to his God, as readily as he did before. But he had felt Peter die, there within the realm of his patron. The Lonely mourned it’s favorite son, wrapping tendrils of nothing around its prey in retaliation. Peter Lukas had been perfectly alone all his life, and he had served that Nothingness with glee. But he was not given the dignity of his chosen death and Martin burned with shame to find relief in that. There was some sort of poetic justice in that, alone up until his very last moment when Jon...When Jon had forced him to be Seen. 

He’s felt Peter’s cries of agony rather than heard ring them, felt the Lonely amplify and feed on Peter’s last effort to remain Unknown. To remain hidden and unseen. Felt the Lonely claim him and every single life in that empty space with more force, to remind them all that they Belonged. Belong to nothing and nowhere and no one.

What a horrible thought. 

Martin dresses and brushes his teeth and splashes his face with frozen water from the sink in order to push himself back into the limits of his shape. No turning half-ghost in front of Jon, that’s the last thing he needs right about now. 

In the living room, Martin finds Jon sitting on the old couch with a thick blanket wrapped around his thin frame. It almost seems to swallow him up as he watches a nature documentary with tired drooping eyes that barely flicker when he registers Martin. He has never allowed himself the thought of Jon, tired and dressed in cozy clothes waiting for him, to enter his mind before. It could almost be domestic and sweet if it exhaustion hadn’t run its course through them both. 

Instead of disrupting the silence, Martin makes his way to take a seat beside Jon. He sinks into the worn sofa, feels a sigh escape him as he closes his eyes to take in the moment. There’s nothing now, no Peter to hide away from, no monsters in the hallway. Just Jon in a blanket, cozy as he can be. He hardly notes the movement as Jon shuffles his way to close the little distance between them. Glancing down, Martin notes the way Jon’s eyebrows knit together and his lips are set in a tight line. They stay like that in the silence filled by the drone of the documentary, pressed together for some semblance of peace.

_I love you_ , Martin tries to say. He tries to think it as loud as he can because he knows it’s safe there in the space Jon won’t intrude. _I adore you_. 

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but for once, he doesn't dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter took a bit longer to write and I'm still only about 85% on board with it. I wanted to do justice to Martin and Georgie because I love them both so much, but their only canon interaction is pretty intense and #notgood. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left a comment or a kudos, they really inspired me to keep writing this chapter. I'll be updating the fic tags as this story goes, please let me know if I miss anything. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at honey-bruh where I post fics or on my personal tumblr at beesabuzzin


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> realized while writing this that the dynamic of this fic is just. Jon 'but I care you' at martin at every possible moment. glad that's canon tho! 
> 
> hows season five treating everyone? I'm so worried for them!

Martin hardly feels The Admiral walk across him, lost between the haze of sleep pulling him back and The Lonely begging for his company. Still, he finds himself blinking sleep from his eyes as he reaches for his glasses. The room is alight with the TV, but it’s difficult to see out past its dim light. It’s still dark out, and Martin breaths a soft huff as he relaxes back into the couch for a moment. There’s something solid and warm in his lap, and when he glances down, Martin is met with the sight of horribly mismatched socks. He leans a bit forward, looking away from Jon’s feet to his face.

His eyes linger there, on the sleeping man illuminated by the static of the TV. It’s a dangerous thing to do, not for the way warmth pools in his chest, but for how it seems to grow and seize in on itself with unpleasant memories. Something seems to whisper _remember_ , remember a time when Jon was so frail it seemed the weight of that paper-thin hospital blanket would crush him. That was the last time he’d seen Jon sleep, if that still as death coma could be considered as such. It saturated every endearing memory of him asleep at a desk or at the break room table, face twisted in and pinched with dreams. Tim would snap a photo and Martin would gently bully him into deleting it. 

He tries to call back the memory instead of just knowing it happened, but all he sees is Jon on the hospital bed stiff as a corpse. Martin reaches out, places a hand on his shin and tells himself it’s not creepy. He just...needs to be sure Jon is real. That he’s solid and real and that he’s not alone, that he won't wake up and be back at the institute by himself. That Jon is asleep on an old sofa instead of alone in that cold hospital room. The warmth that seeps from the blanket is enough, Martin catches his breath and pulls back his hand to rest on his stomach. 

Jon’s face isn’t pinched, his mouth is slack and his eyes flutter behind their lids. He looks alive, exhausted even deep in sleep, but alive. Martin so desperately wants to replace the image of Jon in that cursed bed in that stale hospital room with this. Jon, curled up on the sofa. A cat curled upon his shoulders. A relaxed face. Safe and warmly wrapped up in a blanket. He sleeps like he’s starving for it, and Martin just wants to let him rest, catch up on every morsel of sleep he’s missed over the last hard months. 

_I love you_ , the thought surfaces again. He wants to say it. To practice the weight of those words now when it is safe, just barely toying on the edge of a blade. What would they sound like, out of his mouth, just hanging in the air for no one to hear? He opens his mouth, feels the words there, then sits back with a sigh. Just as well, at least he’d made an effort. It’s still dark out and rain is falling, but Martin knows he won't be going back to sleep anytime soon. 

He sits there for a bit, just listening to Jon’s gentle breath and the sound of rain. A constant companion, a pull and ache that reminds him of home. In the dim light of the tv, Martin can pretend he is anywhere else and anyone else. It’s a sweet reprieve from the demands he knows the day will make of him and has already started making as he can feel the buzz of nervousness in the back of his head. As carefully as he can, he slips out from under Jon’s feet. He offers a silent apology for having to move him, but the only response gets is a glance from the cat. Fair enough. 

He heads for the kitchen, turning the light on with a displeased hum as the bright light burns his eyes. The clock says it’s five-ten, and it feels like the timer has been set on the last moments of normalcy allowed. He’d have to wake Jon soon. They had their bags ready, saying goodbye to Melanie and Georgie wouldn’t take too long. 

As he takes a seat, Martin thinks over Georgie's words. _Take care of him_ , she’d said. Of course, he would. He’s good at that, or at some point in his life, he was good at it. Taking care of people. Even if his mother always found a reason to complain. Even if she was never happy for his help. The nurses and doctors always seemed pleased to see his effort. 

Even if he was bad at it, he’d do everything in his power to keep Jon safe. Whatever that might mean, considering how little he knows. How little keeps coming to mind, the bits and pieces of conversation filed away under the frustration of his self-imposed isolation over the months working for Peter. But there’s nothing he can do about that now. He needs to plan, he needs to move. He’d always been exceptional at that, even if his execution wasn’t always what his plans demanded. Still….

“-Artin?”

“Eep!” He jumps, slamming his knee against the table as he flails to catch his composure. There’s the sound of a breath caught, then a snort as Jon breaks into a laugh. Martin turns, feeling his face red hot as he watches Jon’s eyes crinkle and his body double over as he tries to keep his laughter muffled. 

He’s got the blanket draped around his shoulders, his hair sloppily tied into a messy bun and there’s - clear as day - drool dried on his chin. Martin is entirely enamored by the sight of his Jon so relaxed, so joyful. His laugh sounds like the most perfect music, and Martin wants to set it on repeat. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Jon says, clearly not sorry as he finally manages to catch his breath. “It’s just… ‘eep’! Didn’t think people said that- in real life I mean.” 

Martin feels himself flush even more at that, reaching under the table to rub at his poor knee. “Didn’t realize people were rude first thing in the morning either.” He says but can’t keep the smile off his face as Jon snorts again and moves to take a seat beside him. 

“So...uh, you are..” There’s an edge of concern to Jon’s voice and he pauses before speaking again. “I see that you are up.” 

Martin stares at him, trying to make sense of an obvious statement. Martin knows it shouldn't be endearing, shouldn’t be as...precious to him as it is. 

“Yes, Jon. You’re...very observant.” That gets him a frown, so Martin nods and tries again. “Cat woke me up, decided it was time to stay awake anyways. So now I'm here. You?”

“Uh,” Jon’s cheeks color, and he looks down at the table avoiding Martin’s gaze. “Yes well, you were gone. Not Gone. But I wanted to be sure, that...well I’m glad you’re here, is all.” 

“Oh!” 

“Yes, very much…” Jon clears his throat and looks at him again, and Martin feels caught like a deer in the headlights. “So, are we ready to leave?”

“ _What?_ ” Martin can’t help a chuckle, absolutely blindsided. “No? You’ve got a bit of time if you want to sleep in or-or I don't know...Change? And-And I mean Georgie and Melanie at least deserve a farewell, right?” 

“Oh-Y-Yes of course.” This time, it’s Jon’s turn to blush, much to Martin’s pleasure. “I suppose I will...Go-Are you...will you…?”

It takes Martin a moment, but when the unfinished question registers he can only offer a smile. 

“I’ll be here when you get back.” 

“Okay.” 

* * *

By the time Jon returns, Martin already has two mugs of tea ready. It feels a bit repetitive, but the act gives his mind something to focus on. Gives him something familiar to face. A good cup of tea has never wronged him, and the gentle joy that comes from holding something warm with such a soothing scent has always been a comfort. Martin passes the mug to Jon, who takes it with an almost awed look.

“It’s just tea, Jon.” He says, turning back to his own mug. “Do you think Georgie would mind if I started on breakfast?” 

“W-Uh.” Martin turns back to Jon, making a questioning hum at his prolonged silence. Jon’s got a strange look on his face, like he’s staring at a secret that he wasn’t meant to stumble upon. The longer they stare at each other, Jon’s face shifts. It becomes soft, the hard edges blur and his head just lightly tilts. It’s such a small motion, if Martin wasn’t looking, really truly watching Jon, he would have missed it. That’s the thing though, isn’t it? Martin’s always looking at him. 

“I know the situation isn’t ideal, but I am truly glad that you’re with me.” Jon’s voice is steady, his eyes earnest. Martin feels like a worm under a magnifying glass, the amount of light that seems to pour out of Jon just burns him. It’s so sincere, so honest, so Jon. Martin can only offer a wobbly smile as he tries, truly tries to accept those words as a truth rather than a nicety. 

The burn feels like ice pressed against his heart, feels like being submerged in ice water. The words go through him, mean everything and then nothing. Martin wants to grab at them, demand they stay and warm him. But that’s just now _how_ he is anymore. But it is how he wants to be. Maybe not now, but soon. 

“Of course, Jon. Not getting rid of me so easily.” He says, joking at being serious. But Jon just looks at him over the rim of his mug and speaks again.

“Good, wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Oh-uh…Hm. Breakfast?” 

“Y-Yes.” Jon takes a seat as Martin stands. He finds egg whites and different veggies and gives a slow nod as he tries to piece together what sort of people Georgie and Melanie are based on their food choices. He knows it’s a nosy thing to do, but it’s just a quick glance over as he gathers ingredients for quick omelets. 

“Martin? While you...do that. What sort- How do..I think...Coffee good?” Martin just about drops everything as Jon stumbles through his words. He catches himself actually shooting Jon a glare, it is completely unfair. It’s one thing to be endearingly grumpy and pessimistic, it is another thing to be endearingly _sweet_. If they’re going to escape together, Martin needs to keep his heart together long enough to actually get somewhere. “So...No coffee?” 

“My tea not good enough?” He asks, because it is safer than the alternative words trying so desperately to be heard. The way Jon stutters again makes him pause, turning back to look at him. “Sorry, bad joke. Coffee would be grand.” 

“Oh... okay...ha ha,” It’s an awkward laugh, a little thing that’s still more earnest than anything Martin has faced in the past few months. _I love you_ , pops up again. Martin lets it swim and linger in his mind as he cooks. 

“Erm, so, I know you and Georgie spoke about a plan?” Jon breaks the silence and Martin feels himself freeze. “It’s...I know what we spoke about and what she must have told you. But...I suppose…” He pauses again, and Martin turns to look at him, to really look at him as Jon meets his eyes. They’re such a beautiful dark color, endless and eternal. “I wasn’t lying about knowing my way...erm, my way _home_.” 

“Hm? W-What?” That memory from The Lonely seems to smack him in the face, and he wants to stare as Jon turns a shade darker, hiding his as he busies himself making the coffee. 

“It’s just that- I mean, I didn’t ask you to, uh, run away with me without- well, _you know_ _._ A place to run away to?” 

It feels like being bombarded with information he should have already known, old but new in their context. He can’t help the odd look he gives Jon, because he was certain that Jon hadn’t meant it. To what, blind themselves and escape _together_? No, Jon could have escaped with anyone then, but he knew that Martin couldn’t accompany him and that was why he’d gone to him...right? 

“Daisy has...yes, she has a place um, in Scotland? A safe house of sorts-”

“Why does Daisy need a safe house?”

“Never mentioned why,” He said in a way that told Martin she’d made its purpose abundantly clear. “Um but she did mention the house. It’s uh, a little thing from what she told me. But, well hidden...and far away from here.” 

“She told you that, did she?” He feels again that he’s woken up from a nightmare and found the world completely new. When did Daisy and Jon become friends? No, that’s not a fair thought. It just makes sense, the more he thinks about it. It feels like everyone got closer together when he wasn’t there, maybe because he hadn’t been there. “Yeah, alright. I’ll, uh, I’ll figure out how to get there.”

“J-Just like that, then?” Jon sounds surprised, and Martin can only nod. “We- I’ll finally get to see your breaking and entering skills to use.” 

Martin nods, turning his attention back to cooking. The smell of coffee fills the kitchen and he tries to find some semblance of comfort in it. Months, days, hours, every second of isolation and loneliness felt like a thin layer of mist building up on him. Day after day, returning to a lonely tiny flat to eat ready meals and sleep until he’d have to start the day again. He can’t help the heavy sigh, especially as he feels the weight of sight on him. Being watched, especially after being _nothing_ for so long, is going to take getting used to. 

* * *

It’s as he’s finishing plating their breakfast that Melanie and then Georgie enter the kitchen. He lets them have his eggs and sets on making two more plates as a thank you. It really is the least he can do, even as Georgie teases Jon about what a better house guest Martin has proved to be in one night than he had ever been. 

“It is with a heavy heart that I say,” Melanie’s one bite in when she starts, “That Jon will have to complete his journey alone. I think it is the only right thing for Martin to stay and keep making us breakfast, don't you think Georgie?” 

Martin just about trips on his way to take a seat as Georgie sputters. Jon actually says _absolutely not_ as Melanie laughs. 

“You’re all no fun.” 

“Not that this isn’t great, truly thank you, Martin! But- I mean, Jon can cook?” Georgie points a fork at Jon, who looks a bit offended. 

“Yes, I can cook! I-I mean not as often as before w-with everything going on but yes, _thank you_ for the vote of confidence Georgie.” He ends rather sarcastically. It’s such a dry bitter remark that Martin almost gets swept up in nostalgia for the snippy Jon he used to be. Except.

“I’m good at little things, b-but I’d like to try your cooking one day,” Martin can’t stop the words, and maybe it’s alright given how the shock on Jon’s face quickly melts into a smug pleased grin. 

“Alright...of course, for you, Martin.” 

Martin feels himself flush at that, goes back to his breakfast and hopes he can disappear long enough for those words not to set painful roots in his heart. Breakfast goes quickly after that. They eat their meal with light conversation and then Martin excuses himself to prepare for the day. He throws on a Ghost Hunt UK shirt under a cozy black cardigan. Once done there, he checks on the packs in the living room and does a quick search on his phone which stops would land them closer to...the general area of Scotland. It feels off, not making a certain perfect plan. But if he remains unsure, maybe that would keep Jon from Knowing. 

Is that even important? He already knows where they’re going to end up, if anything, Martin is more concerned with keeping him Fed. They hadn’t even discussed that. Martin gives a small huff of concern before grabbing his bag. He can’t be sure he’s going to handle this the best possible way, and his mother has shown him that even his best isn’t enough. So being extra safe should be better than being sorry, in any case. 

He grabs Jon’s bag and heads to the kitchen where he’s helping Georgie clean up. 

“Um?” He tries, instantly feeling out of place. “I think it’s time to get going.” 

They all look at him, faces turning grim and serious. The warm mood drops and Martin has to remind himself to breathe. This is important, it’s necessary. They can’t bring danger here and they certainly cannot allow themselves to be caught. As much a reprieve from the world this moment has been, the world is still out there and it will not wait for them to be ready. 

“Right.” Jon breaks the silence. He puts down a dishrag and quickly wraps Georgie in a hug. She wraps her arms around him and they hold each other in a tight embrace as Jon says, “Thank you.”

The way they hold each other, Martin becomes vaguely aware that this is the last time they expect to see each other. That, if things go well, Jon won’t have a reason to set foot in this city again. Martin hates that. He wants Jon to go wherever he damn well wishes to go and be with the people he loves. 

Jon moves on to Melanie, the hug shorter but just as meaningful. He wonders when they became close, when they let the anger and hurt that seemed to fester between them turn into something soft and kind, into something strikingly shaped like friendship.

It’s always been about choice for Jon, hadn’t it? Even when there seemed to be no choice, he found a way to make one. Choose to follow Daisy, choose to go into The Lonely, and choosing to be friends with Melanie. Martin can’t help but find himself enamored and awed again. 

“And now,” Jon states, looking between Melanie and Georgie, “The hardest goodbye. Where’s The Admiral?”

“Wh- Jon!” Georgie’s voice is strained, “We were having a moment!”

“Uh, yes well, he waits for no man.” With that Jon moves past Martin into the living room to search for the cat. Martin watches him go before turning back to Georgie. 

“Thank you, for everything. Both of you, I’m not sure what we would have done without you.” 

“Sure, just take care, Martin.”

“Stay alive, please,” Melanie says, an arm reaching towards him. He reaches for her too and it nearly breaks him to do so. It’s different than being fed to Forsaken, where everything is muffled and the pain feels miles away. He staggers as his hand touches hers from the force of Forsaken taking from him that sorrowful farewell, that goodbye that should be bittersweet. In a few words she’d stitched herself into Martin’s life, and The Lonely would make her absence known. Would gladly feast on it. 

She pulls him into a hug, one that he readily returns as he holds her close. Even in her arms there’s an ice wall separating them. There’s her touch just hovering, warmth that cannot melt through the fog. And maybe it is better this way, where he cannot feel the sorrow and terror on their faces as they worry over Jon’s fate. 

“Hey, you’re going to be fine, right?” She says as Martin releases her easy enough and he gives a soft hum of agreement. He feels Georgie pat his arm and sees her concerned face. 

“Thank you both, truly.” He’d gotten off on the wrong foot in different horrible ways with them both, and just with a moment, they’d become people he’d never forget. Always cherish for the way kindness came easy to them. And he knew Forsaken would take advantage of that. 

“Alright,” Jon returns, his eyes puffy and his voice wet. Martin feels his heart break, seeing how close to his chest Jon holds the cat. “Alright, I’m ready to go.” 

Martin was leaving with the only person who he loved. He was lucky, in that sense. But Jon had spent all that time cultivating his relationships, actively befriending Melanie in a way he could not understand. And the long history between him and Georgie must make goodbye so painful. Martin wants to cry for him, but he knows he cannot. 

“Okay,” Jon passes the cat to Georgie. He takes a breath, reaches for his bag which Martin readily gives up, and then he’s heading out. 

“Oh!” Martin has to shake himself as he realizes that Jon...left. “O-Okay!”

“Oh my god. Bye Martin.” There’s a smile on Georgie’s face even as her eyes begin to water. She quickly drops her head against his shoulder before motioning for him to follow Jon. “It was nice to meet you, take care of him, yeah?”

“Absolutely, uh, okay, thank you!” 

* * *

He meets Jon outside, the other man pacing as he wrings his hands nervously. 

“That was rude, I was rude wasn’t I? I just - it felt a bit - I-”

“It’s alright Jon, we need to keep moving anyways. I think Georgie understood.” 

“I…” Jon stopped, took a breath, and closed his eyes. “This is all so...peculiar. I-I don't know what I’m doing.”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Martin takes a step into Jon’s space, putting a hand on his shoulder and offering a smile. “Don’t think anyone’s prepared for this, we’re just gonna do our best and figure it out, yeah?”

“Y-yeah, okay..” Jon heaves another sigh, runs a scarred hand through his hair. “Okay, step one is over. We are out of their flat. And now to Scotland?”

Martin can’t help the tiny laugh that escapes him, but of course Jon is quick to plot and move. He drops his hand from Jon’s shoulder and begins to walk, knowing that Jon would follow. “Um, I checked the tube, just to see what can get us closer...Would that work?”

They walk side by side as Jon contemplates. His hand quickly finds it’s way into Martin’s, making him flush as he waits for an answer. It’s his scarred hand, smooth and rough and soft and perfect, simply because it was Jon’s. 

“That would probably be for the best. I’m not sure how much Section 31 would be bothering to search for us...but that NotThem and uh, Trevor and Julia would probably still be after me…”

The NotThem. What had Martin expected to happen when Peter released it? He can’t help the groan that escapes him, and he really wishes Peter were still alive so that he could...Confront him. The old coward, there's nothing he'd hate more. That close to the end of months of isolation, he knew, he had to know that Martin didn't have a choice. Not really. Perhaps another push for him his to be Alone. If Jon and anyone else in the Archives got hurt, Martin would never be able to face them again.

“I-Uh, I’m sorry.” Jon’s voice, nervous and a bit scared, knocks him out of his train of thought as he stares down at him. He’s a bit upset, because he doesn’t want to be an angry vengeful person. But if Peter were still alive, _if_ , then he would at least like the chance to make him a bit miserable. He certainly doesn’t want Jon to be scared of him, at worst he’d give Peter Lukas a good talking too. That would send him running, had sent him running plenty of times. 

“No, I’m sorry-”

“Martin, please.” He stops walking, and Martin stops a moment after. “This is dangerous. I-I understand if- if you decide not to go with me.” Jon’s not looking at him. He’s let go of his hand and is pointedly looking away from Martin as though it would break him to see him. 

“W-What? Of course I’m going with you? I-Oh, You weren't Looking?” He steps back towards Jon, putting his hands on the other mans shoulders. It takes a moment, but Jon looks back at him and Martin cuts him off because he knows, _he knows_ that Jon will try to convince him otherwise. “I watched Peter Lukas release NotSasha a-and didn’t really feel anything about that? Like, I got mad, right? B-But I let it go? A-And I wish I could have...could have had the chance to tell him off, really tell him off, you know?” 

That’s not what Jon is expecting, he can tell by the way his face shifts in uncertainty. They’re on two different pages, no, after all the months apart, Martin is certain they’re not even reading the same book. But Martin wants to try, he wants to know and he wants to be there. For Jon. 

“As I said, you’re not getting rid of me so easily. So, let's get ourselves out of London. Okay, Mr. Sims?” 

Jon’s shaky smile, fragile and there, is worth everything Martin could ever give up. He starts walking, and Martin hears a pleased _good_ as he passes him. He stifles a sigh, and keeps pace. It makes sense, right? Martin thinks it does, that they’re both jumpy and at odds. He’s seen Jon a few times, none of them ending on a positive note.

And now he’s running away with him. 

He’s only a little nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this next chapter will make it painfully obvious that I'm American from a small ass middle of nowhere town because I have no idea how transportation works like you can get on a train thing and go to another country? four hours is a long time? I want to go on a train/rail system so bad smh! 
> 
> anyways, I'm trying to make a consistent uploading schedule. I'll be updating A Disasterous Life of One Martin K Blackwood next, and just alternate on these fics until they're done. This chapter was going to be longer, but it felt like a good cut off point? idk
> 
> thanks for reading, i really appreciate all the kudos and comments left on this fic, really makes my day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward conversations, Martin has thoughts, and Jon just wants to be close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: aw man Jon wouldn't act like this tho :/  
> canon Jon: Martin my love my reason my boyfriend and love of my life!!  
> me: okay FINE

Martin knows he made good Lonely fodder for a reason.

He knows that, even before Peter, it was easy to fall into the background after so many years of practice. To fade away from the world was second nature. 

Forsaken made it easy, Forsaken gave power to his pain, to his agonizing loneliness. Gave him an odd agency over the way the eyes of others saw through him, not because he didn’t exist, but because he chose to be Unseen by them. 

Forsaken does not give him that kindness now. 

And Martin feels sick. 

He can feel himself shake as they make their way through the crowd at Kings Cross. There are too many people with too many voices and too many shirts of different colors and there is too much happening around him. The storefronts are too bright, the noise is too loud, and there are too many people near him all at once. 

Jon walks ahead of him, and Martin tries to control his breathing as he follows along. One step after the other, one breath after the other. He watches Jon’s hair sway with every step, it’s gotten just below his shoulders. It looks shiny and soft and Martin wants to run his hand through it, to braid it gently while Jon lets him.

The distance between them grows, suddenly and intensely. Jon’s there an arm's length away, but untouchable in every way that matters. It would be so easy to fall back into Forsaken, to join The One Alone, and let the fog muffle his pain. 

Instead, he takes another step, another breath, and follows Jon deeper into the crowd. 

It seems a bit unfair then, that there in the center where faces blur in motion, where people are too busy to fully exist in space and time, that Jon stops. 

“Seems we have a problem,” Jon says, eyes still glued to his screen. Martin waits for him to continue, to share or to at least hint at whatever’s got him glaring at his phone in frustration. 

He waits, looks around the crowd of moving bodies as though the answer will leap out and attack them. He tries not to shake, tries to keep a steady breath. The silence stretches on and it makes Martin feel dizzy. If it’s  _ their _ problem, then why isn’t Jon sharing? Forsaken sounds a lot like Martin’s own voice, but the words would be more appropriate leaving his mother’s mouth. 

“Um, are you going to-to share or?” He asks, his voice a tremble of a whisper. It’s a miracle to be heard at all despite the constant hum of the crowd. Jon looks up to Martin, eyes wide as if surprised to see him. And it hurts, but Martin knows better than to let that mean anything. He tucks it away and offers Jon an encouraging nod. “What’s the problem?” 

“Oh uh, well.” There’s embarrassment coloring his voice and it’s almost enough to make Martin bark a laugh. He wants to reassure Jon that it's okay to forget him, slipping from people’s memory used to be a comfort. Bittersweet, but still. “Well you see, there’s only three tickets left for the next train. None of the seats are close together.”

Martin nods, trying to find the problem with that. 

“Also they’re expensive,” Jon adds as an afterthought, but that’s all he needs to hear. “If we wait a day or two, that-that might give us better seats and prices?” 

“Do we have a day or two, Jon?” He asks cautiously, leaning over to see the screen. Beside him, Jon goes still. 

“I-I don’t think so? But-”

“Well, those are pretty expensive. You should still get a ticket. Better for you to be as far away as possible. I’ll follow when the prices are a bit more reasonable?” It’s not the best possible solution, Martin knows that. He might not be able to keep Jon safe, but it’s nice to at least be able to keep an eye on him. 

Jon stays silent, looking up at Martin as though he wants to say something but can’t figure out the words. Well, that is a first. 

“What matters is getting  _ you _ out of the city. Everything else can wait.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not the one being hunted by a monster or two rabid dogs.” He points out, although Jon glares at him as though he’s missed the point. Like a real, proper, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, just promoted Jonathan Sims glare. It makes Martin blink, a bit surprised to see such a familiar look on Jon’s face. “Woah.”

“Do you really think I’d just, what? Leave you here?” He asks, and Martin has to stop himself from flinching. It’s not about what he thinks, it’s about what Forsaken knows in its own insidious ways. 

Jon needs to get out. Those tickets are way too expensive. Martin can stay and it won’t make a difference. 

“Doesn’t matter, shame I don't have Peter’s cards on me anymore, but getting you out of here is the top priority. Georgie would agree, you know.” 

“What- You had his - Nevermind. Georgie said you had to take care too if you recall. Ma-No.” Jon sighs, brings a hand to rub at his forehead and Martin can’t help a laugh at that. Jon’s mad at him already, just like the good old days. The sharp glare he shoots at Martin is enough to leave him fully chastised, and Martin can’t help apologize. “I thought you wanted to come with me? I-I won’t hold it against you if you changed your mind, Martin, I just-I don't know.” 

“W-What? It’s just a couple days Jon, then I’ll get a seat up and we won’t have to worry so much about the funds.” The way Jon’s face transforms into straight misery hurts, but he’s not sure what else to say or do. “I won't have you staying here where something new is trying to get its claws on you every few hours. I-I just want you to be safe, Jon.”

“I want that too.” He says, taking a breath. 

“So get your ticket, Jon.” 

“W-You! Martin, I want  _ you  _ safe for goodness sake!” Jon turns his glare past him, a dark flush lighting up his skin. “Just thought, I don't know, that we’d be at least next-next to each other - so that I could keep an eye on you. That is.”

“I mean, after all these months, what’s a few hours more?” This feels ridiculous, like a conversation that shouldn’t be happening because it’s actually two conversations and Martin is missing the other half of it.

“...feels like everything,” Jon mutters under his breath, and Martin just about loses his mind because he’s certain he wasn’t meant to hear that.

“Just get your ticket, Jon.”

“I’m getting them, two tickets for the train in three hours and I should be able to keep an eye on you from these seats.”

“Again, that doesn’t really matter, what about the funds?”

“It’s not about the bloody funds!” He snaps, this time it’s sharp and desperate and Martin can’t stop himself from flinching. It’s in the sudden coolness on his skin and the horrified expression on Jon’s face. “I-I am so sorry, Martin I just-I just. We’re supposed to be...I don't know, this isn’t what I had in mind when we’d run away together.” 

Martin doesn’t want to linger on the way his voice becomes soft, almost hopeful. The way the word  _ together _ weighs in the air between them, like a bridge yet to be burned. Martin steels himself, feeling Forsaken fade away. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been holding, a part of him doesn’t think he can let it go until they’re firmly out of the country, putting miles and miles between Jon and Jonah Magnus. 

“Sorry,” he says and means it, reaching a hand to brush his fingers against Jon’s. “I just-I just want you safe, above all else. A-And I don't think we get to be picky about escaping the city while one creepy little man and other assorted monsters are looking for you-for us. We’re still going to be on the same train?”

Jon’s pretty face twists like he wants to argue, like Martin’s missing the main point. Instead, he takes a hold of Martin’s hand and the tension seems to drain from his tired frame. “You’re right, of course, you’re right. Um, two tickets then…” 

Jon returns his attention to the phone, tapping away with elegant fingers. It’s a nice thought, getting on the train with Jon next to him, leaving the city together, leaving  _ everything _ behind for good. Maybe Jon would get sleepy, his head would fall against Martin’s shoulder and he’d look down to see his face framed by thick locks. 

It’s such a pretty image, but it’s just not their reality. The thought hurts so much he can only rub circles into the back of Jon’s hand to keep himself from doing something stupid, like seeking out a more comforting act to ground himself in. What would the skin of his hand feel like against his lips? Jon’s warm, far warmer than Martin’s been in ages. But those thoughts are all Martin allows himself.

“Done. That was surprisingly easy, I suppose.” Jon huffs, turning his attention to the sprawling crowd around them. Kings Cross is usually busy, and today is no different. People live their lives unaware of the horrors that exist within their very city. Martin almost feels bad, but it’s not like he can give them a warning. “We have about three hours...what now?” 

* * *

They spend the time going into gift shops and stopping at the food court. 

Martin doesn’t want to be around the crowds nor does he want to eat, but he wants to worry Jon even less, so he follows him around the station like a lost duckling. 

Much to his chagrin, Jon catches Martin staring wistfully at a leatherbound journal at one store and surprises him with it when they leave it. It hadn’t been anything worth too much, but Martin carries the weight of that guilt with him, feeling the loss in their metaphorical wallet. He smiles and thanks Jon for it all the same. 

Their seats aren’t that far apart, just a few rows down and across each other. It shouldn’t feel like miles, like years apart. But it does, and Martin knows that this is what he signed up for, but he doesn’t have to like it. He helps Jon place his bags away in the overhead compartment before heading to his own seat, stopped only by the feeling of burned smooth skin wrap around his wrist. 

Turning back, Martin is met with a determined-looking Jon. 

“I’m going to keep an eye on you, alright?” There was no arguing with that, so he doesn’t. He gives a nod and a smile before moving down a couple of rows. The window seat has a man in an expensive suit with a laptop open.

Martin glances around the train, at all the people in their own worlds, so close and so very far from each other. He takes his seat and turns to find Jon staring at him. He has to lean into the aisle just a little, not enough to be obvious but enough to be deliberate. 

He acts caught, as though Martin wouldn’t have turned to him immediately. The way his eyes widen and his hand opens up in a timid wave sets something warm and alight in his chest. Martin offers up his own small wave before looking down at the floor in front of him. 

Maybe getting on the train without a phone or book or any distraction wasn’t a good idea. 

Maybe that’s why Jon wanted to sit together, so that they could at the very least talk a bit. 

He pulls out the journal and a pen, opens it up to the first creamy white page with rough edges, and wonders how he’ll ruin Jon’s gift. Looking back up, he sees Jon already talking rather animated to the man next to him. Some distant part of him feels a sharp prick of hurt, but it’s stamped out by the fundamental joy of seeing Jon happy. It’s worth it, even if this safe distance is all Martin ever gets, it’ll be worth it. 

The train starts moving after another few minutes, and Martin’s decorated the first page with a rather flowery border. Feeling a bit bold, and for the sake of his own inside joke, he writes out in elegant letters  _ From the Library of Martin K Blackwood _ . 

It’s in bad taste, he knows it is. He remembers that tape stashed with the others, listening to it with Melanie. They’d known how it would end, but it was a bitter surprise to hear it first hand. And to know that the man who’s name was proudly printed on those hellish books did nothing but sacrifice others for the sake of...not knowledge, but simply for the sake of seeing what might be done. Like a cat killing for the sake of boredom.

Well, Martin thinks it’s a privilege to be remembered as a cowardly joke rather than a simple coward. To say he deserved the end Elias gave him would be too much, but he very well should have lived the rest of his miserable life in exile. 

There are other things to focus on. 

Martin titles the second page with the word Forsaken written at the top. Below, he lists all the statement givers who had encountered it, jots down little notes on how they escaped and how they survived, and anything else he can remember about The One Alone’s stubborn grasp on them. 

And then Peter. 

He doesn’t want to think about him. But Peter had been a loyal avatar, one who saw Forsaken as a god to worship and feed. He found comfort in it, the same way Martin knows he could find comfort in it if he really wanted to. The same way he’s held onto his loneliness like a badge of pride, like a wound that he forced himself to survive through every day. 

Martin writes out the question: _ avatar of the lonely? Alone → feed others… to forsaken?  _

What a slippery slope that is, Martin glances around him and watches an old woman. He bets she knows something about loneliness. They all do, in their own way. Perhaps she has children who refuse to visit her, the last of her siblings alive. The man beside him had planned a trip with his lover, but the woman had canceled the trip because her husband got sick. Always picking up the scraps of love left over, Martin can sense the fog as easy as he can sense that he’s in motion. They tell him stories of hurt so deep that feeding them to Forsaken would be a kindness.

Peter had called it  _ their _ patron, as though Martin wasn’t just a willing sacrifice anymore. As though Martin was far along enough to fully pass for a monster with no regard for the life of others.  _ Feel what I feel, know what I know _ , it says in a voice that sounds like Martin’s but in words that belong in Peter’s mouth. 

Forsaken...Martin writes it down again and again. 

It’s there in the name. Forgotten, abandoned, rejected, unloved, overlooked. The world goes on and leaves him behind, claims that he is unworthy of a spot with the rest of humanity. Forsaken provides a place for him and others like him, always alone in a way that chokes and leaves him shaking. And it gives him a choice. To forget, to feed it his pain and sorrow from within its numbing fog, or to make his pain into a knife and turn it against others. 

And it’s easy, as the man shifts beside him, to imagine him stuck forever on a cold miserable train full of people who are not people.

“Hm.” The page is full of his scrambling thoughts and it hurts something vicious inside to realize just how far gone he is. Just how easy it would be to decide to be something other than Martin. 

He doesn’t want that. 

There’s not much left for him but -  _ hows that for a fuck you to the lonely? _

But there are some things. Martin glances towards Jon again, and Jon startles at being caught. The distance between them is impossible, just a few rows between them but Martin might as well be in love with the stars. 

Jon offers a smile, eyes bright and teeth showing as though he cannot help the upward curl of his lips. It’s like holding up a jar of honey to the sun on a warm spring day, the world around him calm and still. Jon couldn’t be sweeter if he tried, and for all his efforts, Martin wants to know what his honeyed smile would taste like against his lips. 

If Jon can look at him like that, Martin wonders how he must look at the people he actually cares about. 

And the thought catches him off guard, makes him offended on Jon’s behalf. Jon is open and good, and he is kind and brave. Forsaken cannot take that from him. 

Martin drops his gaze and writes down on the next clean sheet of paper:  _ Jonathan Sims _ . He writes down what he knows is true, what he’s seen. How he takes his tea, how his choice in clothes has changed from pressed shirts and stiff pants to old band shirts and Martin’s old cardigan that he left behind before-

He knows he’s gone red, but he keeps writing. Things he knows. Things he wants to know. About how the man across from him smiles so warmly despite the terror so deeply embedded in his life. About how he’d always been like that, soft and brave and lovely whenever he forgot to be purposefully prickly. 

Martin used to like him so much. The bravado he put on sometimes crossed into real cruelty, but it was difficult to take to heart most of the time. Maybe the distance between them had felt safe even then. Maybe it was another reason Forsaken felt so comforting. 

“Excuse me?” A voice knocks him out of his thoughts, and Martin practically jumps out of his seat. He slams his journal shut and looks up with wide eyes at Jon’s seat partner. 

“Um-uh, hi?” Martin stutters, eyes glancing from him back to Jon. 

“I was just-I mean you want to trade seats?” He points a thumb over his shoulder, and Martin can only blink. “It’s just your mate over there keeps going on and on about you, and don’t get me wrong we’ve all been there yeah? But I’d rather not hear about it for the next few hours.”

He says the last bit like it’s an inside joke, like he’s doing Martin a favor. Maybe he is. 

“S-Sure! Of course, thank-thank you!” Martin grabs his small bag and journal and scoots around the smaller man on his way down to the newly emptied seat.

It feels like a bigger deal than it actually has any right to be. But the way Jon sits up straight, the way his hands twitch, and the way his smile wants to give way to words make Martin feel like a child getting to sit with his best friend at lunch. At least, he supposes this is what it would feel like. 

“Hello,” Martin says as he drops into the seat. He hadn’t realized just how long they’d been moving, but the stiffness in his legs tells him he’s lost time again. “What did you do to make him switch seats?”

“I can be rather persuasive,” Jon says, his words light and airy as he stares at Martin.

“Oh certainly, used that old Oxford charm?” 

“You would be surprised by the lack of appeal there is in holding a conversation with a man who, for all his graces, clearly hasn’t read up on the classics.” Jon deadpans and Martin feels himself get a bit nervous. 

“Wow, you’re really good at that.” He says instead. 

“At what?” 

“T-That! That judgey....well you know!” 

Jon snorts at that, his nose wrinkling in a way that makes Martin’s heart flutter. “Yes, I suppose I do. Know, that is. Uh,” he pauses for a moment before shifting to sit with one knee to his chest. “I hope you don't mind changing seats. This-this is certainly more what I had in mind...when we left-when we-”

Rather than finish his thought, he slips his hand easily into Martin’s and gives it a squeeze. It’s a charming thought, Martin cannot help but be endeared to the idea that Jon imagined this far ahead as he led them out of Forsaken. That this was so important to him, that entire time.

“Is this why you were so concerned with the tickets?” Martin can’t help tease, giving Jon’s hand a little squeeze as Jon suddenly averts his gaze, but his face flushes up to his ears. Martin wants to press a kiss to his jaw. 

“Yes, I-I know it doesn’t seem like much but, but I think we...I think I deserve to sit with you on-on this ride.” It’s like pulling out teeth, almost. But Martin feels warm at the admission that Jon, Jon himself, wanted to sit with him. Such a silly little thing. He knows he’s got a stupid lovesick grin on his face because Jon keeps avoiding his gaze. 

“You’re sweet, Jon,” Martin says, careful not to put too much meaning in his words. It doesn’t work, because Jon turns away and takes a deep breath as if to calm himself. That’s alright, these warm feelings got him out of The Lonely, so he knows they can’t be that bad, even if he’s the only one feeling it. He won’t make it Jon’s problem. 

“So, you were writing?” 

“Oh! Yes, I-Well, if it’s alright I’d rather discuss it when-when we get there? Um, it’s mostly...stuff about  _ Her _ .” And he doesn’t know why that feels right to say when Peter had been so present within the fog of The One Alone. Maybe because he wasn’t the first to introduce Martin to Forsaken. His mother threw Martin deep into its clutches long before the universe could have ever orchestrated his hire by Elias. Web involved or not. 

“Her?” Jon asks, eyebrows creasing. Martin just shrugs and makes a vague gesture of  _ there’s people around _ . Jon seems to get the message because he nods with wide eyes. “Yes, of course, Martin. Whatever you need to say I’ll, I’ll do my best to provide...adequate support.” 

“Why, thank you, Mr. Sims. Very thoughtful of you.” Martin tries to use his professional voice, but it backfires spectacularly as Jon laughs in his face. It’s a full laugh, deep from his chest. He should try to shush him, with the way people are turning to look, but how incredibly lucky are they to see Jon laugh? Do they know what that sounds like? Like rain falling on a drought-ridden land, like a door long left untouched finally opening and the words  _ I’m home _ being spoken for the first time in months. 

They don't know how lucky they are, how precious a gift Jon’s laugh is. But Martin does. And he cherishes it and snips the memory of it into his heart for safekeeping. After a long moment, he puts a hand on Jons arm and motions for him to keep it down. 

“You’re in an awfully good mood?” 

“How could I not be? I’ve got you.” 

What a baffling thing to say. Martin’s smile slips as he stares back at Jon, confusion no doubt evident. Jon looks away, as though Martin had scolded him, a sheepish expression on his face.  _ I’ve got you _ \- it’s a miserable thing to say. To come out of The Lonely, to come out of the Institute. To have escaped Jonah Magnus and only have one Martin Blackwood to show for it? 

“Martin?” Jon’s voice dips beneath the fog and scoops him out. 

“Oh! S-Sorry,” he says, feeling fuzzy around the edges. The moment goes from something soft to something terribly awkward, and Martin curses his inability to school his face. 

“S-So Daisy’s?” He says instead, trying to keep a conversation going.

“Yes,” Jon says, a small nod and smile playing on his lips. “Daisy’s.”

“And-And how did, um, how did that happen?”

Jon gives a questioning hum, eyebrows raising in a perfect expression of confusion. Martin feels himself flounder, knowing that his months of isolation have done something to his ability to make thoughts into words and words into sentences. 

“How do you know about the cabin? Was-Did she offer it as um, a place while you were out looking for -”

“Oh!” Jon says, and he looks flustered and Martin very much wants to ask if he’s gotten so bad at talking to people. “It was her idea, actually. Said you might like the fresh air and view.” 

He doesn’t like the way Jon says things so easily. Words have meaning and Jon says things that mean the world to him as though he’s discussing the weather. 

“W-Why would she think that?” 

“We were discussing what we would do if- if we could get away from it all. She said she wanted to take up knitting or painting or something. Something meditative, I think…”

“Oh, that...that sounds rather nice, yes.” 

“Yes well, she mentioned the cabin because I said I didn’t know. Kept offering up uh, unsatisfactory ideas of what a vacation might entail. I believe her words were ‘Martin would probably like it’ and well, that-that got my attention.” 

Jon’s gone a shade darker, he hand flexes in Martin's and glances at him nervously. Martin wants to find it endearing, but all that comes to mind is Daisy and Jon having a conversation about him while he’s alone behind a closed door. He thinks about kicking Daisy out, unsure if he’d meant what he’d said to her or to Peter. They weren’t friends, but he didn’t want her to disappear either. He couldn't stand her at that moment, but like hell would he let Peter hurt her.

Now it just feels like a cruel twist. 

“You guys talked about me?” It comes out a whisper, a wisp of fog. Sometimes Martin’s sure to drown in it. 

Jon gives him a soft squeeze and a tight smile, stopping himself from saying something before starting again. “You have to know I missed you, right? We all did, in our own way. Peter knew what he was doing when he took you-”

“Yes, I know-” Martin can’t help a flinch but Jon just barrels on.

“-I never knew how warm you made a room feel until it was cold. The archives felt bigger than they should, I found myself wondering if the distortion had done something to the place while I was away, but it was simply that you weren’t there. Peter took our hearth from us, of course, we were scrambling for any bits of warmth we could find. 

“I would wear your cardigan, sometimes. Something old you left behind. Daisy caught me wearing it. I-I just wanted a reminder that you were there even when I couldn’t see you. And Daisy said-She mentioned the cabin. And we talked and she said she'd take up painting and I'd go to the cabin with you. Said you’d probably like it since you’re the bleeding heart sort for spiders and dogs and whatnot. I-I’m sure it won't be much, but I hope it’s enough, Martin.”

The more he talks the more nervous he sounds, a bit desperate as Martin feels himself fall further away. It’s not supposed to be like that, he knows it. Knows that those words mean something, that Jon saying it takes courage and that there’s a bridge to gap between what he says and what he feels. That Martin is a point in all that, a destination. 

Martin knows it’s Forsaken, because the voice in his head is too much like his mother. It says, of _course_ , Jon missed him, he was the only one of the assistants to survive. That he’s been there the longest, that Jon would find himself missing anyone because he’s kind like that. That there’s nothing special about _Martin_ , and he’s certain that Jon talks like that to everyone. It’s a very Jon thing to do, to miss anyone who he might feel responsible for in some way. Doesn’t matter if it’s Daisy or Melanie or Martin. Jon’s just like that. 

That it’s rather unfortunate the only surviving assistant is the one least deserving of having been there. 

But those aren’t his thoughts. He tried to push and Forsaken shoved back twice as hard.

Martin bites his cheek and blinks back tears. 

“Sorry Jon, I-I think we should, um, continue this conversation off the train? If that’s alright I-I appreciate it, I know I do. I just, I can’t  _ feel _ it right now, and there are things I want to discuss properly...And-And I don't think here is the best place.”

”...Oh,” Jon looks at him like the last puzzle piece has fallen into place. “Oh, I understand, Martin.” He says, voice soft to match his eyes. It feels bad to see it, the way his smile becomes something like a wounded bird trying to take flight. Martin can’t help but feel he’s disappointed Jon somehow. 

“I-I suppose she’s right? A cabin does sound nice.” That makes Jon’s smile a little more solid. 

“Yes, she also said something about some cows? Do you like cows, Martin? She said they were highland cows, fluffy things?” Martin’s sure he’d say yes to anything Jon asked there, but he can only offer a shrug in response. 

“Never seen one in person. I-I wasn’t aware that Daisy knew so much about me, I suppose…” Martin lets the thought die, certain that bringing up her detective past wouldn’t do any good here. 

“I talked about you, uh...I guess. A lot.” Jon admits as he ducks his head and looks away. 

“Oh,” Martin says because he’s not sure how to respond to that. He doesn’t like how it hurts, not when it should feel soft and warm. 

Instead, he gives Jon’s hand a squeeze and pulls it to rest safely on his lap. 

He’s not sure if that would make Melanie proud, as a bold act against Forsaken. It certainly feels like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to the peeps who wrote comments explaining train stuff to me: thank you so much this update is for u
> 
> who else got a lil nerfed by 2020? take it easy out there folks.  
> kudos and comments are appreciated!
> 
> also, after reading this for the 50th time tryna edit and make sure punctuation and grammar and spelling were okay...i think i gotta just accept things will slip past me :/
> 
> feel free to shoot me a message or come chat w me at[ honey-bruh ](https://honey-bruh.tumblr.com/) or [beesabuzzin ](https://beesabuzzin.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads have a soft moment

Martin watches the world outside the window change. Cities bleed away to mountains, to lakes, and then civilization bleeds back into view. Buildings, people, lives, they move around him at every stop, constantly in a seasick motion. 

He dips in and out of consciousness, falling asleep against the cool window only to wake up against Jon’s shoulder. The first time he’d woken up, Martin had shot up in his seat embarrassed. By the third time, he’d let his head rest on Jon’s thin shoulder, taking in the sight of his nimble finger scrolling down his phone. 

The silence between them is comfortable, Jon is close and always in his space or welcoming Martin into his. There’s something to be said about how easy it is, after all this time, to just sit there with Jon. It had never been so easy before. 

_ He just doesn’t want to be alone _ , a voice that sounds like himself says. 

_ That's what I’m here for _ , he responds. 

“How much longer?” He asks, shifting his seat as he tries to push the thought away. 

“Just a little over an hour,” Jon replies readily, then glances up at him with a smile. “Managed to get us last minute accommodations at a hotel not too far away from the station.”

“Oh?” That shouldn’t be so surprising. “So we still have a ways to go before we reach the cabin?” 

“Erm, yes. Maybe by the end of the day tomorrow? It-I mean, it’ll be a journey.” Jon pauses for a moment, looking a tad bit nervous. “Is that alright?”

“I’ve already sat for hours on this train with you, Jon.” Martin said, “A couple more won’t scare me off.”

There’s something soft, shy, and genuinely hopeful playing on the edges of Jon’s face. Martin wants to snatch it up in his hands, hold it gently before it can get hurt by something in their vicious world. But he knows better than to hold onto anything too tightly, lest he crushes it between his fingertips. 

The hour goes by rather quickly, compared to the hours before it. The sky shifts in color, blue to a deep orange that fades into darkness. The first star pokes through and Martin silently encourages the rest to take up residence beside it. 

When they pull up to the station at the end, Jon stands with a groan, every bit of his body crackling in a way that makes Martin want to fuss. 

“Do you want me to wait with you?” Jon asks, looking down at him with an arched eyebrow. 

“What?” 

“T-Your other bag?” Jon reminds him gently. Martin flushes and shakes his head. 

“I got it, th-thanks though.” He stands to help Jon gather his bag and lets him off with the rest of the crowd. Everyone shuffles out of the train until it’s just him and a few stragglers. 

It’s very strange, to be alone in a different place. The chill of the night air from the open doors gets to him, gentle against his exposed skin. It feels familiar, it feels wrong. 

Martin crosses the short distance for his bag and quickly rushes out, the cold air knocking the wind out of his lungs. That and the sight of the station platform, full of people wandering about. He hadn’t realized they’d all been on the train with him and Jon. They’re certainly better prepared for the cold than he is, but Martin lets the thought sink and quickly scans the crowd for Jon. 

He spots him a bit off towards the front, practically on his toes searching for someone.

Oh.

Searching for  _ him _ .

He spots Martin and waves a hand high above his head, face lighting up with what he can only call relief. For a moment, he wants to rush back into the train for the safety of a wall between them.

Instead, he sets off to meet him, weaving rather clumsily around the crowd. It was easier with Forsaken on his side, but he tries not to focus on that even with the chilled air pressed so comfortable around him. 

It’s there on the platform, with people dispersing around him and Jon standing waiting, that it hits him. 

They haven’t left anything behind. Not really. 

Jon carries the scars of the past visibly on his skin, a loud reminder of everything that he’s been lucky enough to survive. He’s been broken down and he’s built himself back up into someone who can stand there across from him now, someone with hope and courage. 

Whatever baggage they have, Martin knows this isn’t the end of the life they lived in London. It’s simply a new beginning. One where they finally get to be in charge. 

Jon’s cheeks are flushed from the cold and Martin wastes no time in rummaging through his bag as he reaches him. 

“Everything alright?” Jon asks as Martin finally pulls out a cozy-looking sweater and thrusts it at him. “Oh! Oh, thank you, Martin.”

He takes the sweater in his hands, thumbs brushing the fabric of it before he finally throws it on. It’s large on him, but he looks warmer instantly as he rolls the sleeves up. 

“It's...Not as good as that cardigan but, it works.” Jon says with a huff, hands smoothing out the lines of fabric as Martin pretends to look at anything else. He’d forgotten about that already. 

“Um, m-maybe in the future..?” The way Jon’s head snaps back to look at him, eyes bright and warm, makes him want to melt. It is too strange a place to be, wanting to hide and be seen all at once. “Well, should we get going?” 

“Oh, right! This way,” Jon shuffles to get his bags and starts walking, and of course, Martin follows. 

As they walk, Jon fills the space with an amicable conversation, occasionally slowing down enough for Martin to walk beside him. Jon glances at his screen before heading one way or the other, and Martin spends most of that time taking in the darkened buildings. It’s not so different from London, and yet it is entirely new. The moments now and the space between them belong to each other. 

It’s nice, listening to Jon’s voice bounce off the buildings as he talks about some version of Hamlet Martin’s never heard of. It feels comfortable in a way nothing has in months, a familiarity set in the long nights of staying in the archive. When would Jon work late nights just down the hall, his voice carrying through the thin walls. The terror of stories hadn’t filled his heart, but the rumbling of Jon’s voice lulled him to sleep many a time. He has nothing to offer the conversation, but the way Jon looks surprised to see him actually listening every time he glances his way is enough to keep him interested. 

“Sorry, I’m sure you’re tired of my rambling,” Jon says as he turns towards what looks like an old hotel. He’s got a sheepish grin on his face that Martin’s resigned himself to think about kissing forever. 

“It’s good,” Martin responds, his voice carrying like lead in water. “I am a bit tired. Not in the mood for conversation, but I just-just want to hear you talk, honestly. I like it.”

“Oh!” Jon’s got a very bad poker face. Martin smiles at the way his expression shifts about three ways in the small moment he’d opened his mouth.  _ Cute _ , he can’t help but think. They keep walking, the door of the building begrudgingly giving way to harsh fluorescent light. It’s warm in the building, Martin lets himself relax. “You said-uh, that there were things to discuss?”

“Yeah, I want to have that conversation...I need to, uh, save up the energy?” He tries a laugh, gets a look of pure fondness from Jon that leaves him breathless just long enough for Jon to move to the front desk. Martin hangs back, watching Jon and the blond-haired man behind the counter exchange information in hushed tones. 

“Martin! This way.” Jon heads towards an elevator, Martin quickly scrambling after him. It takes a moment, but when it arrives the doors almost struggle to open and Martin shoots Jon a pointed look. Jon obviously ignores it. 

The air is stale inside, and Martin huffs a breath as the doors close with their reflections staring back at them. Jon sets his bags down, and then he’s leaning his weight against Martin again. Again. “We have all the time in the world for discussions Martin. There’s no need to rush if you’re tired, but-but I will listen, of course. If you need to talk.” 

Martin stares at himself in the cool metal doors. It’s easier than focusing on how Jon presses his cheek against his arm as if nuzzling for warmth. He nods, not trusting himself to speak without the words  _ I adore you _ ripping out. That’s not what Jon needs right now, and he cannot trust himself with those feelings while everything still feels so raw and overwhelming. 

Their room is two floors up and three doors down. 

The door opens on silent hinges to show one bed, a small two-seater, a microwave on top of a dresser, and a door that leads to the bathroom. Jon enters and drops off his bags with a thud before switching on the lamps in the corners of the room. 

“I know it’s not much, but it was the best I could do given the...admittedly bad planning on my part.” Jon shoots him a smile and motions for Martin to actually cross the threshold. 

It feels like a dangerous thing to do.  _ I’m going with you, you know that right? _ How could he ever think to let Jonathan Sims out his sight ever again? How could he think he wouldn’t get burned from getting so close to the sun, he truly never thought anything through, not with the way the light sets a warm glow on Jon’s skin. 

“Are you alright, Martin?” Martin, Martin, Martin. Jon says his name like it means something, like it’s connected to something that matters, that has significance. 

Martin fidgets with his hands as he stares at Jon. It’s silly, how damning crossing the threshold feels. Like he’s giving something up. Like he’s saying goodbye to the comfort of cold mist and lonely seas. Behind him, Peter’s shadow is heavy on his shoulders. In front of him, Jon’s brow furrows with concern and he’s got a pout on his face that Martin wants to smooth away. 

This is what it’s going to be like, Martin realizes with a panic. Until Forsaken gives up on him, no, until he can truly leave it behind, every little action is going to feel monumental. It’s about the choice, the choice to be there, always. Present with Jon. 

He steps into the room and away from Forsaken, and is met by a wave of warmth that sizzles at the chill on his skin. He gasps as the weight of an endless fog lifts from his shoulders for just a moment. 

He looks around, willing the world to change. It’s just an ordinary room. A painting of a tulip that looks older than Martin adorns one side of the walls. Everything is bathed in that orange tint of the lights. It smells damp. There’s nothing special about it. But Jon is there.

With deep warm eyes and a nervous smile, his fidgeting hands mirrored in the way Martin holds his own. They’re there. 

If every choice is going to feel like a new beginning, then Martin’s determined to begin with Jon every time. 

“Do you want to set the bags down?” Jon asks, his voice thick with amusement. Martin would do anything he asks of him at that moment, so he does. They land with a small thunk, but Jon’s eyes are still on him with an endless warmth that seems to call to him. Is this how Simon felt, looking up towards the sky? 

“Oh,” Martin says, realizing with a rising flush that they’re alone. Not Georgie or Melanie in another room. Not a train full of people sharing in their space, existing just outside their strange little bubble.    
  


Martin doesn’t know how to do that. How to be alone with someone, especially Jon. It’s oddly easier with other people around him. He knows how to fade into the background then. There’s no escape from Jon’s gaze now. 

“Should we get - uh, ready for bed?” Martin asks when the silence stretches for too long. It seemed comfortable for Jon at least, who keeps the silence between them just a moment longer before huffing a laugh. 

It’s a breathy thing, Jon’s laugh. At that moment it’s everything. 

“Are you hungry? We should get you fed.” 

“Oh!N-Not really? Is-Is that okay? I can order something- if you like?” 

“That’s fine, let’s get to bed then, alright?” 

“Oh!” he slips his gaze to the bed, a hideous deep green with a yellow zigzag pattern on the comforter. They’re going to share the bed? Looking back at Jon, he knows that they are. “Y-You should get ready first, I’ll...Uh, yeah.” 

“Yeah,” Jon shakes his head and turns to shuffle through a bag before locking himself in the small bathroom. Martin watches him disappear and heaves a sigh the moment he’s alone. 

Alone. 

A part of him expected the Lonely to rear up the moment Martin found himself alone, but all he can feel is a nervous excitement and warmth at the thought of being there with Jon.

Jon’s right there. Just a door away.

Jon.

Jon smiling at him with eyes that hold such deep fondness. Like honey and milk, it’s a nostalgic comfort that never belonged to Martin in the first place. No one has ever looked at him the way Jon looks at him. It’s a fuzzy thing, a warm living thing, that beats kindly in his chest. He wonders if Jon feels it too, then shuts that thought down before it shatters into something sharp and dangerous. 

It’s fine. Fine to be there with Jon, just to keep him from being alone. But that’s it. There’s no need to fool himself into wanting more. 

Martin looks around the room and decides to put away their bags in the empty wardrobe. He fishes his phone out and then tries to find an outlet that isn’t under the bed. He ends up unplugging one of the lamps and setting his phone on the ground. He doesn’t bother to look for messages. 

“Alright,” Jon says as he leaves the bathroom, warm steam seeping out. His long hair is wet, a towel draped over his shoulders. He’s wearing a Ghost Hunt UK shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. It’s an impossibly cozy look. 

In two nights Martin has seen more of Jon than he had ever thought he would. It’s not stuffy in a pressed shirt Jon, scowling at his assistants while giving instructions. It’s not a paranoid desperate Jon with deep-set eye bags. Not the bits and pieces of Jon he’d managed to catch in his self-imposed isolation. He thought he loved Jon every time he’d seen him before, and he knows he loves him now too. Martin knows he’d love Jon every time he saw him and every time he doesn’t. 

Jon clears his throat, flushing as though Martin had spoken his thoughts out loud. For one horrible moment, he expects he has. 

“Erm, don’t think jeans are cozy for bed?” 

“Oh! Oh, r-right, sorry!” Jon actually laughs at him as he fumbles to get a change of clothes and rushes towards the bathroom. It’s a horrible small room with a shower and no tub. That’s fine. 

The room is warm, filled with the faint scent of the complimentary soap and shampoo. Martin doesn’t think about the choice he makes as he moves through his shower. There’s no fear of leaving the room, no solace in staying and becoming fuzzy around the edges of his being. It’s just water, washing away the tired aches from sitting on the train for so long. It’s just warm, and Martin soaks it in before finally changing into his pajamas. 

Martin shivers when he joins Jon back in the main room. It’s old in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

Jon’s already in bed, laying on the side furthest from the window. The other side is empty, the sheets pulled back as though waiting for someone to climb into bed. 

Martin looks from the folded back sheets up to Jon, who stares at him before slowly patting the empty space beside him.

“Jon!” Martin squeaks, flustered by his apparent boldness.

“W-What? You’re not-not taking the sofa! This - It makes sense right?”

“I promise Forsaken will not get me if I’m not latched onto you for a night, Jon. I-It’s fine!” Martin says, trying to offer Jon a way out of sharing the bed. 

Something in Jon’s expression sours. No,  _ he’s blushing _ , Martin realizes with a flush of his own. 

“Martin...” His voice is soft, low like he hopes it goes unnoticed. Martin knows this must be a habit leftover from staying in the archives while Peter was there. Of course. Physical closeness is a great way to push away The Lonely. 

Martin is slow getting in. The sheets aren’t the softest, and the mattress isn’t very firm. But Jon is there not looking at him as he pulls the sheets into his lap. There’s a deliberate space between them that Jon seems very interested in. 

“Is this alright? Are-Are you alright?” There’s so much Martin can’t do for Jon. He’s not smart like Basira or brave like Melanie or strong like Daisy. He’s not even sure he knows how to be close to Jon like they all could. Like Daisy could, easily and comfortably. Like it was second nature. 

Tim used to make him laugh so easily. And Sasha, she was always so in sync with him. They were friends. Jon had friends, has them even now just hours away, fighting for their lives while Martin fears to cross the space between them. 

“Yes,” Jon’s voice is low but content. “Thank you.” 

“Oh! S-Sure thing.” It’s been so long since he’s been so close to someone, he was certain to get tired of it. But he finds he misses the way Jon moves in his space, the easy and casual nature of his affection. 

They’re silent for a moment before Jon shifts to lay down, his hair a crown fanning out sprawled against the pillow. 

“Do you want to talk about it? We don’t need to, of course. If you’re-if you’re not feeling ready for it.” 

Martin looks down at him. There’s something soft about Jon in the dim light of the room, making him look as young as he is. He’s not asking for Martin to bleed for him, to bare himself so that Jon might know and learn and observe. 

He’s always been so good, Martin hadn’t been privy to his kindness at first, but he’d always known Jon was good. 

Martin takes a moment to gather himself, to figure out how to put words to thoughts. He doesn’t want to feel shame when speaking with Jon, not after everything they’ve been through. Not after all the hours and days and weeks of nothing, of no one. Looking at Jon, soft and warm and worried, Martin finds that he trusts Jon with all the wounded bits of himself. More than he’s ever trusted anyone. 

“I’m scared.” He admits. “On the train, and in the station...it felt like I just wanted to be alone so badly. It’s comfortable there, not good. But comfortable. A-And it felt like I wanted to-to uh, share that. With others. I-I don’t, not really. But that thought scared me.”

There’s such a blatant look of concern on Jon’s face. It feels too heavy, it’s too personal a look for someone like Martin to be at the receiving end of it. He swallows, looks at his hands and offers a shrug. 

“Sorry, strange conversation, I know.” 

“Yes, it is,” Jon responds with an attempt at a smile. “But it is important to have it. I, uh, perhaps I don’t know enough about Forsaken, even with Peter’s statement, if I’m honest. Hm, strange saying that.”

“Don’t like not knowing?” 

“Certainly feels like this should be an area of my expertise.” He comments, voice cool and collected. Martin can’t help but smile. Jon’s eyes flick down, lingering in a way that makes him far too aware of the space between them. “I believe that in most cases, there is a death...a dying, that serves as a sort of catalyst for the change. It requires choice, its-I...Most of us made that choice.” 

_ Not really _ , he wants to say. Jon lays across from him, bones and meat and muscle. Just a person, a human that the world has not been kind to. Just a person, soft and pliable and stubborn and headstrong. 

“Well, I certainly won’t be doing any of that, that’s for sure.” Martin says, smiling when Jon meets his eyes. “Already made my choice.” 

“Oh, w-well I’m glad to hear that.” Jon nods, his face serious and lips pressed into a line. “What did you choose, Martin?”

And Martin looks up to the strange plaster of the ceiling. It’s terrifying, the way The Lonely managed to sink into him. The way it’s numbing embrace could so easily be a curse for anyone who got too close. But there is a choice involved, and that makes him feel safe. He’s already made his choice.

“You. Obviously, you. Always.” Martin lets the words out with a soft sigh. Jon takes a breath like it hurts, like it fights him, but he presses on. “I just think staying human is...what I want. There’s nothing The Lonely can offer me. I-I don’t want it. Not-Not the comfort it gives for the price it demands. Um, it’s not worth it. Losing you...Can’t ever do that again, honestly. I just, I just want to...to be me, I guess. I hope that’s enough, someday.” 

“It is.” Jon’s voice is raw, his eyes red with tears threatening to spill. 

“Oh christ, Jon, I’m sorry, are you okay?” He brings a hand up, slightly hovering over Jon. When Jon reaches for it, wrapping thin fingers around his wrist, Martin is too overcome with the warmth of his skin to fight the motion. Jon guides his hand to his cheek, and Martin can’t help but splutter. 

Jon instantly pulls away, eyes wide as he stares at him. It feels like fire. Not the sharp pain of Forsaken’s wrath, retribution for forgoing its numbing kindness. It feels like fire in a way Martin hasn’t touched anyone for so long, in the way no one has searched for him as a source of comfort in much longer. And then it hurts, in the way Jonathan Sims has been starved of affection to the point of searching for it from Martin. 

“S-Sorry, that was, that was weird wasn’t it?”

“A little bit, yeah.” He says softly, earning him a pointed look that Martin returns with a smile. He doesn’t mean to, not when Jon sounds a mess and his eyes are burning red. So he reaches, gentle as he smooths his hand against Jon’s face and watches as the other man melts under the touch. He’s so warm, soft and small.  _ How strange _ , he thinks, that the man who’s done everything to keep the world safe can fit in his palm like that. “Jon? You’re so  _ good _ , you know that right? Impossi-Impossible not to choose you. I don’t want to do anything that could put you in danger or make me not-not be with you.” 

Martin flushes, unsure if he could survive after such a botched confession. Jon takes a shuddering breath, brings his hand to rest over Martin’s, and shifts his head to press chapped lips against his skin. 

“I love you,” Jon says, voice wet and ragged. The tears fall as he blinks, and Martin notes how thick Jon’s eyelashes are. They frame his eyes in such a pretty way. The weight of the words does not crash into him, not as he’d hoped. 

It’s a choice. Martin doesn’t want to be hurt, least of all by Jon. It’s a choice, to trust. After so long, after so much time muffling everything behind a thick fog. 

“Are you sure you’re not just...Lonely?” He asks, his voice not sounding right. 

Jon scoffs, but even Martin can’t miss the hurt that flashes over his face. 

“You just-What? Wake up from a coma and-and not see me for a couple of months and call that love?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory. He wants to slam his mouth shut, wants to play it off. It’s mean, it’s mean and he’s sure this isn’t what Jon had in mind. Even if he’s just lonely or scared, even if it’s not true, Jon doesn’t deserve meanness. 

“I-” Jon sighs before squeezing his hand and guiding it to his chest. It’s such a simple thing, not letting go even when Martin’s gone and made a mess of things. “T-That’s fair. That’s fair. I-You…”

“Jon? It’s just-”

“Martin,  _ please _ , let me finish.”

“Well it’s just! J-Just.” Martin stares. Jon's dark eyes, wet and irritated from keeping his emotions all bottled up. At the furrow of his brow and the pout of his lips. “It’s just, I’ve loved you so long Jon. I-I don’t want you to-to say that if you’re just- I don’t think I’m strong enough for that.” 

He feels the weight of Jon’s gaze on him. It fills the silence, even with nothing spoken. The sounds of the city seep in, the small noises of the hotel at night seem impossibly loud. Finally, Jon sits up, leaving Martin to scramble after him. They sit there, in the low orange glow of the lamp as Jon watches him, reaches for him, and Martin reaches back. 

“I don’t know when it happened.” Steady voiced, Jon sets their linked hands on his thigh. Martin leans closer to him, the space between them unimaginable. “I just know one day the thought that you of all people could be against me, could have killed Gertrude-It was so far fetched.” Jon huffs a laugh, long suffered, and wary. “It couldn’t be Martin, not-not the Martin I knew. The one I still know. Anyone but you.” 

As he speaks, his free hand works through his damp waves. Martin follows the motion because it’s easier than thinking of such a time. So long ago when a cup of tea was the only thing Jon would ever want from him. 

“When I woke up - Because I wasn’t going to  _ confess  _ \- ” He says it like he’s angry at the word, and Martin can’t help but laugh - “and then die on you. T-That would have been terrible, the worst thing to do.”

That would have been terrible. Martin tries to imagine watching Jon for hours knowing his feelings were reciprocated. “S-So even then?” He asks, blinks as his eyes start to sting. Jon looks at him, really looks at him and nods. 

“I had plans. For if I survived. Naive of me as it may have been, I thought I could properly woo you. Sweep Martin Blackwood off his feet and, uh. I heard office gossip, B-Basira and Melanie...About your-your feelings.” Martin knows he’s burning. Jon doesn’t even have the decency to sound sheepish. “Felt too good to be true, so I made plans on how to, how to date you. I would be there for you. Take you for lunch. Bring  _ you _ tea, maybe? A foolproof ten-step plan to winning your heart. Um, and when I woke up I - again rather naively - Thought you’d come rushing in, all sweet and worried. I-I was looking forward to being fussed over.”

And Martin laughs as Jon ends with a shrug, a soft laugh that feels light and true at the thought of it. It could have been real. The feeling is flooded by guilt. He wipes his eyes with his free hand.

“I would have fussed so much, you would have gotten sick of it.” 

“No, no never.” He says, and Martin wants to hear that again and again. He feels dizzy with the devotion in Jon’s voice, full of something warm and sweet set buzzing in his chest. “I didn’t come to love you in your absence, Martin. I already loved you, and I missed you so much. But I love you, so I had to trust you. I-I had to. It was the right thing to do.”

In all his expectations for confessions, there had been an explosion of emotion. A triumphant moment of bliss. But there’s just Jon, sweet and brave as always, and that’s enough. The space between them, warm and safe and knowing. Because, of course, Jon loves him. Of course, Martin loves him too. They wouldn’t have made it out of Forsaken, otherwise.  _ That’s the scope of his love _ , Martin thinks to himself, awed and overwhelmed. 

Martin drops his head to Jon’s slender shoulder, pressing wet eyes to the cloth of his shirt. A hand comes to rest on his head, fingers working through his mop of hair. He tries to think of the last time someone held him like this, let him be close to them. The last time anyone wanted him so close. Tim, maybe. Sasha, sometimes. His mother, never.

“I know your life isn’t a prize to be won. I-I respect you a great deal,” Jon says the words into his hair, soft and kind before pressing a kiss to his head. It’s too good to be true. “But I truly feel like I’ve won. I-I did it, I escaped and I got you. I’ve won.” 

“Some prize.” Martin snorts, is rewarded with a light squeeze of his shoulder. 

“An excellent prize. You- are the only prize I could ever want.” He says in such a matter of fact tone of voice, with such sureness, that Martin has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. Or crying. 

_ Jon loves him _ .

“Shush, how can you say that?” He asks in a voice too small, too fond, and too eager. He wants that to be true, more than anything. 

“Martin-I, You have to know,” Jon pauses as he shifts away, a hand coming to guide Martin’s face to meet his gaze. Martin swallows, the space between them almost nothing. “There’s no time for shame or nerves, for me at least. I’ve lost enough time with you as it is. That being said, I-I don't want to cross any boundaries.”

“Yeah, yeah, I- It’s fine,” He’s surprised to find he means it. Odd, to think that Jon would be the one with an open heart, but that’s always been his charm. Shut off, stuffy head archivist Jonathan Sims always wore his heart on his sleeve, even if he didn’t know it. “Better than fine, it’s-it’s good.” 

Truly, strangely, wonderfully good. Because Jon loves him. Because he could sit there with him at the end of the day and find comfort in the way Jon moves through life. And apparently Jon could do the same. 

Martin lets himself move forward, leans into Jon’s space to rest his head on his shoulder. Jon brings a hand to card through his hair, easy as anything. 

“I love you.” He says, a faint breath against Jon’s shirt. He hears Jon sigh as his hands hold him closer. It won't fix everything, it won’t fix him. But that harsh reality feels so dim to the power that Jon has gifted him.  _ Love _ , wrapped up in the worn body holding him, “I love you, Jon.” 

“I love you, too.” Jon presses a soft kiss to his head, his fingers gently digging into his mop of hair. There in the dead of night, Martin feels himself warmed as though the sun were in his veins. “I-We should get to bed.” 

Martin doesn’t need to see him to know he’s flustered. No doubt the words he’d spoken have crashed back onto him, but Martin holds onto them like treasures. He can’t help but laugh, letting Jon have his space back. 

“Wow, Jonathan Sims telling me to go to bed? Consider me thoroughly wooed.” 

“Shut up, Martin.” There’s no heat to his words, and the flustered look is good on Jon. Martin feels himself beam as Jon leans forward only to stop himself. Then he frowns, bringing a hand to rub at his arm as he stars at a spot over Martin’s shoulder. For a moment, concern fills Martin, but Jon sighs and shakes his head. “Alright, alright. We have a long day tomorrow, so...we need rest.”

Jon says it like he’s trying to convince himself. Martin finds it absolutely endearing, as so much of Jon tends to be. 

“Alright,” He agrees. 

“Alright.” Jon says, sounding what Martin can only call grumpy. 

He looks at Jon. At the slight pout, and growing furrow of his brow. Martin wants to kiss that spot, just to know what it’s like. He wants to kiss it, and he realizes with a flash that giddiness that maybe sometimes Jon’s thought of kissing him too. It feels rather juvenile, but it makes his heart beat faster. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, because as tender as the moment is, as endearing as Jon can be, he doesn’t want to leave Jon’s storming thoughts on their own. 

Jon looks at him, then eyes the small space between them. He sighs before laying down and patting the space just in front of him. 

“I have been told that I snore.” He confesses with such severity that Martin almost apologizes. Then, he’s snorting a laugh again. 

“Oh my god.” 

“I haven’t-Haven’t exactly shared a bed with anyone in a while Martin!” Jon raises his voice, an attempt to be heard over Martin’s chuckles that only serves to increase the ridiculous nature of his confession. “And I really, I want to. With you. If that’s okay.”

The Lonely feels forever away from him, in that moment. Just a hazy dream, a childhood nightmare. His heart is full of Jon, of the way his lips curl in a smile and his nervous hands move when he talks. Of the way his voice is expressive and dramatic and warm. 

Martin lays himself down, hardly taking his eyes off Jon as he does so. It feels impossible not to see Jon, not to be pulled towards him, just a speck of dust drawn to a star's gravity. 

“I don’t know if I snore, but I do move a lot.” He says, but it sounds like  _ I love you _ , even to his own ears. He pulls up the blanket beside him, offering a spot for Jon to curl up next to him. 

Jon stares for a moment. He’d never thought he’d get this, never allowed himself this sort of dream. Of Jon looking tempted at the idea of curling up beside him. It would have seemed too much, sharing such intimate space with the man he loved. His heart would have exploded. 

Instead, it just feels sweet. If Jon doesn’t want to, then Martin cannot feel it in himself to be hurt. On the contrary, he’s excited to learn how Jon prefers to sleep, how the moment will carry them forward. 

So he’s only a little surprised when Jon nods and clambers to tuck himself under Martin’s arm. His heart soars, feeling Jon drape an arm around his waist. He lets out a pleased hum as Martin drops his arm and blanket over him. 

It’s not a cascade of fireworks. It’s not a sweet passionate plea for love. Instead, it is a warm appreciation for his companionship, a feeling so big and so whole that he can only ascribe it to The Vast. It feels like home if home had always been there with Jon. 

“I love you.” He says, unable to fault himself for the way his voice breaks. 

“And I love you,” Jon responds in earnest, and Martin feels himself curl closer to him. Jon presses a kiss to his shoulder, and it’s more honest affection than he’s gotten all his life. “Get some sleep,” he says. 

“I love you.” He says again because he can. It’s feather-light in his mouth, but drops into the room like lead. He is rewarded with another kiss, this time as Jon shifts to sit up. He looms over Martin before dropping down to press his lips against Martin’s forehead, something soft and powerful. 

“I adore you,” Jon says, his voice full and perfect. Martin pulls him into his embrace, just loose enough for Jon to find a comfortable position, “I love you.” 

Martin smiles, cranes his head to press a kiss of his own against Jon’s head. Jon tenses in his arms before relaxing, letting his weight rest against his side in a perfectly comfortable way. He wonders how long they’ll last like this, curled up against each other. 

“Alright, alright.” Martin sighs, collecting himself with a sight. “I lo-I mean, goodnight, Jon.” 

This time, Jon laughs. It’s a small sound, muffled and joyful.

“Yes, goodnight, Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, I tried too hard too reconcile this fic w season 5 and forgot what these scottish honeymoon fics are all about. It's all abt that tenderness and yearning!!! but mostly tenderness!! also who needs chapters this long, ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> I'm at [beesabuzzin](http://beesabuzzin.tumblr.com/) stop by for a chat if you'd like!


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